THE  NOVELS  AND  TALES  OF 
HENRY  JAMES 


New  York  Edition 
VOLUME  IX 


THE  AWKWARD 
AGE 


BY 


HENRY  JAMES 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1908 


Copyright,  1899,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Copyright,  1908,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  under  special  arrangement  with 
Harper  &  Brothers 


URL 


PREFACE 

I  RECALL  with  perfect  ease  the  idea  in  which  "  The  Awk 
ward  Age  "  had  its  origin,  but  re-perusal  gives  me  pause  in 
respect  to  naming  it.  This  composition,  as  it  stands,  makes, 
to  my  vision  —  and  will  have  made  perhaps  still  more  to  that 
of  its  readers  —  so  considerable  a  mass  beside  the  germ  sunk 
in  it  and  still  possibly  distinguishable,  that  I  am  half-moved 
to  leave  my  small  secret  undivulged.  I  shall  encounter, 
I  think,  in  the  course  of  this  copious  commentary,  no  better 
example,  and  none  on  behalf  of  which  I  shall  venture  to 
invite  more  interest,  of  the  quite  incalculable  tendency  of  a 
mere  grain  of  subject-matter  to  expand  and  develop  and  cover 
the  ground  when  conditions  happen  to  favour  it.  I  say  all, 
surely,  when  I  speak  of  the  thing  as  planned,  in  perfect  good 
faith,  for  brevity,  for  levity,  for  simplicity,  for  jocosity,  in 
fine,  and  for  an  accommodating  irony.  I  invoked,  for  my 
protection,  the  spirit  of  the  lightest  comedy,  but  "  The 
Awkward  Age  "  was  to  belong,  in  the  event,  to  a  group  of 
productions,  here  re-introduced,  which  have  in  common,  to 
their  author's  eyes,  the  endearing  sign  that  they  asserted  in 
each  case  an  unforeseen  principle  of  growth.  They  were  pro 
jected  as  small  things,  yet  had  finally  to  be  provided  for  as 
comparative  monsters.  That  is  my  own  title  for  them,  though 
I  should  perhaps  resent  it  if  applied  by  another  critic  —  above 
all  in  the  case  of  the  piece  before  us,  the  careful  measure  of 
which  I  have  just  freshly  taken.  The  result  of  this  considera 
tion  has  been  in  the  first  place  to  render  sharp  for  me  again 
the  interest  of  the  whole  process  thus  illustrated,  and  in  the 
second  quite  to  place  me  on  unexpectedly  good  terms  with 
the  work  itself.  As  I  scan  my  list  I  encounter  none  the 
"history"  of  which  embodies  a  greater  number  of  curious 
truths  —  or  of  truths  at  least  by  which  I  find  contemplation 
more  enlivened.  The  thing  done  and  dismissed  has  ever, 

v 


PREFACE 

at  the  best,  for  the  ambitious  workman,  a  trick  of  looking 
dead,  if  not  buried,  so  that  he  almost  throbs  with  ecstasy 
when,  on  an  anxious  review,  the  flush  of  life  reappears.  It 
is  verily  on  recognising  that  flush  on  a  whole  side  of  "  The 
Awkward  Age  "  that  I  brand  it  all,  but  ever  so  tenderly,  as 
monstrous  —  which  is  but  my  way  of  noting  the  quantity  of 
finish  it  stows  away.  Since  I  speak  so  undauntedly,  when 
need  is,  of  the  value  of  composition,  I  shall  not  beat  about 
the  bush  to  claim  for  these  pages  the  maximum  of  that  ad 
vantage.  If  such  a  feat  be  possible  in  this  field  as  really  taking 
a  lesson  from  one's  own  adventure  I  feel  I  have  now  not 
failed  of  it  —  to  so  much  more  demonstration  of  my  profit 
than  I  can  hope  to  carry  through  do  I  find  myself  urged. 
Thus  it  is  that,  still  with  a  remnant  of  self-respect,  or  at  least 
of  sanity,  one  may  turn  to  complacency,  one  may  linger  with 
pride.  Let  my  pride  provoke  a  frown  till  I  justify  it ;  which 
—  though  with  more  matters  to  be  noted  here  than  I  have 
room  for  —  I  shall  accordingly  proceed  to  do. 

Yet  I  must  first  make  a  brave  face,  no  doubt,  and  present 
in  its  native  humility  my  scant  but  quite  ponderable  germ. 
The  seed  sprouted  in  that  vast  nursery  of  sharp  appeals  and 
concrete  images  which  calls  itself,  for  blest  convenience, 
London ;  it  fell  even  into  the  order  of  the  minor  "  social 
phenomena "  with  which,  as  fruit  for  the  observer,  that 
mightiest  of  the  trees  of  suggestion  bristles.  It  was  not,  no 
doubt,  a  fine  purple  peach,  but  it  might  pass  for  a  round  ripe 
plum,  the  note  one  had  inevitably  had  to  take  of  the  differ 
ence  made  in  certain  friendly  houses  and  for  certain  flourish 
ing  mothers  by  the  sometimes  dreaded,  often  delayed,  but 
never  fully  arrested  coming  to  the  forefront  of  some  vague 
slip  of  a  daughter.  For  such  mild  revolutions  as  these  not, 
to  one's  imagination,  to  remain  mild  one  had  had,  I  dare  say, 
to  be  infinitely  addicted  to  "  noticing  " ;  under  the  rule  of 
that  secret  vice  or  that  unfair  advantage,  at  any  rate,  the 
"  sitting  downstairs,"  from  a  given  date,  of  the  merciless 
maiden  previously  perched  aloft  could  easily  be  felt  as  a 
crisis.  This  crisis,  and  the  sense  for  it  in  those  whom  it  most 
concerns,  has  to  confess  itself  courageously  the  prime  pro- 

vi 


PREFACE 

pulsive  force  of  "  The  Awkward  Age."  Such  a  matter  might 
well  make  a  scant  show  for  a  "thick  book/'  and  no  thick 
book,  but  just  a  quite  charmingly  thin  one,  was  in  fact  orig 
inally  dreamt  of.  For  its  proposed  scale  the  little  idea  seemed 
happy —  happy,  that  is,  above  all  in  having  come  very  straight; 
but  its  proposed  scale  was  the  limit  of  a  small  square  canvas. 
One  had  been  present  again  and  again  at  the  exhibition 
I  refer  to  —  which  is  what  I  mean  by  the  "  coming  straight" 
of  this  particular  London  impression  ;  yet  one  was  (and 
through  fallibilities  that  after  all  had  their  sweetness,  so  that 
one  would  on  the  whole  rather  have  kept  them  than  parted 
with  them)  still  capable  of  so  false  a  measurement.  When 
I  think  indeed  of  those  of  my  many  false  measurements  that 
have  resulted,  after  much  anguish,  in  decent  symmetries,  I 
find  the  whole  case,  I  profess,  a  theme  for  the  philosopher. 
The  little  ideas  one  would  n't  have  treated  save  for  the  design 
of  keeping  them  small,  the  developed  situations  that  one 
would  never  with  malice  prepense  have  undertaken,  the  long 
stories  that  had  thoroughly  meant  to  be  short,  the  short  sub 
jects  that  had  underhandedly  plotted  to  be  long,  the  hypocrisy 
of  modest  beginnings,  the  audacity  of  misplaced  middles,  the 
triumph  of  intentions  never  entertained — with  these  patches, 
as  I  look  about,  I  see  my  experience  paved  :  an  experience  to 
which  nothing  is  wanting  save,  I  confess,  some  grasp  of  its 
final  lesson. 

This  lesson  would,  if  operative,  surely  provide  some  law 
for  the  recognition,  the  determination  in  advance,  of  the  just 
limits  and  the  just  extent  of  the  situation,  any  situation,  that 
appeals,  and  that  yet,  by  the  presumable,  the  helpful  law  of 
situations,  must  have  its  reserves  as  well  as  its  promises. 
The  storyteller  considers  it  because  it  promises,  and  under 
takes  it,  often,  just  because  also  making  out,  as  he  believes, 
where  the  promise  conveniently  drops.  The  promise,  for 
instance,  of  the  case  I  have  just  named,  the  case  of  the  ac 
count  to  be  taken,  in  a  circle  of  free  talk,  of  a  new  and 
innocent,  a  wholly  unacclimatised  presence,  as  to  which  such 
accommodations  have  never  had  to  come  up,  might  well 
have  appeared  as  limited  as  it  was  lively  j  and  if  these  pages 

vii 


PREFACE 

were  not  before  us  to  register  my  illusion  I  should  never 
have  made  a  braver  claim  for  it.  They  themselves  admonish 
me,  however,  in  fifty  interesting  ways,  and  they  especially 
emphasise  that  truth  of  the  vanity  of  the  a  priori  test  of 
what  an  idee-niere  may  have  to  give.  The  truth  is  that  what 
a  happy  thought  has  to  give  depends  immensely  on  the  gen 
eral  turn  of  the  mind  capable  of  it,  and  on  the  fact  that  its 
loyal  entertainer,  cultivating  fondly  its  possible  relations  and 
extensions,  the  bright  efflorescence  latent  in  it,  but  having 
to  take  other  things  in  their  order  too,  is  terribly  at  the  mercy 
of  his  mind.  That  organ  has  only  to  exhale,  in  its  degree,  a 
fostering  tropic  air  in  order  to  produce  complications  almost 
beyond  reckoning.  The  trap  laid  for  his  superficial  con 
venience  resides  in  the  fact  that,  though  the  relations  of 
a  human  figure  or  a  social  occurrence  are  what  make  such 
objects  interesting,  they  also  make  them,  to  the  same  tune, 
difficult  to  isolate,  to  surround  with  the  sharp  black  line,  to 
frame  in  the  square,  the  circle,  the  charming  oval,  that  helps 
any  arrangement  of  objects  to  become  a  picture.  The  story 
teller  has  but  to  have  been  condemned  by  nature  to  a  liber 
ally  amused  and  beguiled,  a  richly  sophisticated,  view  of  re 
lations  and  a  fine  inquisitive  speculative  sense  for  them,  to 
find  himself  at  moments  flounder  in  a  deep  warm  jungle. 
These  are  the  moments  at  which  he  recalls  ruefully  that 
the  great  merit  of  such  and  such  a  small  case,  the  merit  for 
his  particular  advised  use,  had  been  precisely  in  the  small- 
ness. 

I  may  say  at  once  that  this  had  seemed  to  me,  under  the 
first  flush  of  recognition,  the  good  mark  for  the  pretty  notion 
of  the  "  free  circle  "  put  about  by  having,  of  a  sudden,  an 
ingenuous  mind  and  a  pair  of  limpid  searching  eyes  to  count 
with.  Half  the  attraction  was  in  the  current  actuality  of  the 
thing :  repeatedly,  right  and  left,  as  I  have  said,  one  had  seen 
such  a  drama  constituted,  and  always  to  the  effect  of  pro 
posing  to  the  interested  view  one  of  those  questions  that  are 
of  the  essence  of  drama  :  what  will  happen,  who  suffer,  who 
not  suffer,  what  turn  be  determined,  what  crisis  created, 
what  issue  found  ?  There  had  of  course  to  be,  as  a  basis,  the 

viii 


PREFACE 

free  circle,  but  this  was  material  of  that  admirable  order  with 
which  the  good  London  never  leaves  its  true  lover  and  be 
liever  long  unprovided.  One  could  count  them  on  one's 
fingers  (an  abundant  allowance),  the  liberal  firesides  beyond 
the  wide  glow  of  which,  in  a  comparative  dimness,  female 
adolescence  hovered  and  waited.  The  wide  glow  was  bright, 
was  favourable  to  "  real "  talk,  to  play  of  mind,  to  an  explicit 
interest  in  life,  a  due  demonstration  of  the  interest  by  persons 
qualified  to  feel  it :  all  of  which  meant  frankness  and  ease, 
the  perfection,  almost,  as  it  were,  of  intercourse,  and  a  tone 
as  far  as  possible  removed  from  that  of  the  nursery  and  the 
schoolroom  —  as  far  as  possible  removed  even,  no  doubt,  in 
its  appealing  "  modernity,"  from  that  of  supposedly  priv 
ileged  scenes  of  conversation  twenty  years  ago.  The  charm 
was,  with  a'hundred  other  things,  in  the  freedom  —  the  free 
dom  menaced  by  the  inevitable  irruption  of  the  ingenuous 
mind ;  whereby,  if  the  freedom  should  be  sacrificed,  what 
would  truly  become  of  the  charm  ?  The  charm  might  be  fig 
ured  as  dear  to  members  of  the  circle  consciously  contribut 
ing  to  it,  but  it  was  none  the  less  true  that  some  sacrifice  in 
some  quarter  would  have  to  be  made,  and  what  meditator 
worth  his  salt  could  fail  to  hold  his  breath  while  waiting  on 
the  event  ?  The  ingenuous  mind  might,  it  was  true,  be  sup 
pressed  altogether,  the  general  disconcertment  averted  either 
by  some  master-stroke  of  diplomacy  or  some  rude  simpli 
fication  ;  yet  these  were  ugly  matters,  and  in  the  examples 
before  one's  eyes  nothing  ugly,  nothing  harsh  or  crude,  had 
flourished.  A  girl  might  be  married  off  the  day  after  her  ir 
ruption,  or  better  still  the  day  before  it,  to  remove  her  from 
the  sphere  of  the  play  of  mind ;  but  these  were  exactly  not 
crudities,  and  even  then,  at  the  worst,  an  interval  had  to  be 
bridged.  "  The  Awkward  Age  "  is  precisely  a  study  of  one 
of  these  curtailed  or  extended  periods  of  tension  and  appre 
hension,  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  the  resented 
interference  with  ancient  liberties  came  to  be  in  a  particular 
instance  dealt  with. 

I  note  once  again  that  I  had  not  escaped  seeing  it  actually 
and  traceably  dealt  with  —  after  (I  admit)  a  good  deal  of 

ix 


PREFACE 

friendly  suspense ;  also  with  the  nature  and  degree  of  the 
"  sacrifice  "  left  very  much  to  one's  appreciation.  In  circles 
highly  civilised  the  great  things,  the  real  things,  the  hard, 
the  cruel  and  even  the  tender  things,  the  true  elements  of 
any  tension  and  true  facts  of  any  crisis,  have  ever,  for  the 
outsider's,  for  the  critic's  use,  to  be  translated  into  terms  — 
terms  in  the  distinguished  name  of  which,  terms  for  the  right 
employment  of  which,  more  than  one  situation  of  the  type 
I  glance  at  had  struck  me  as  all  irresistibly  appealing.  There 
appeared  in  fact  at  moments  no  end  to  the  things  they  said, 
the  suggestions  into  which  they  flowered ;  one  of  these  latter 
in  especial  arriving  at  the  highest  intensity.  Putting  vividly 
before  one  the  perfect  system  on  which  the  awkward  age  is 
handled  in  most  other  European  societies,  it  threw  again  into 
relief  the  inveterate  English  trick  of  the  so  morally  well- 
meant  and  so  intellectually  helpless  compromise.  We  live 
notoriously,  as  I  suppose  every  age  lives,  in  an  "  epoch  of 
transition  " ;  but  it  may  still  be  said  of  the  French  for  instance, 
I  assume,  that  their  social  scheme  absolutely  provides  against 
awkwardness.  That  is  it  would  be,  by  this  scheme,  so  in 
finitely  awkward,  so  awkward  beyond  any  patching-up,  for 
the  hovering  female  young  to  be  conceived  as  present  at 
"  good  "  talk,  that  their  presence  is,  theoretically  at  least,  not 
permitted  till  their  youth  has  been  promptly  corrected  by 
marriage  —  in  which  case  they  have  ceased  to  be  merely 
young.  The  better  the  talk  prevailing  in  any  circle,  accord 
ingly,  the  more  organised,  the  more  complete,  the  element 
of  precaution  and  exclusion.  Talk  —  giving  the  term  a  wide 
application — is  onething,and  a  proper  inexperience  another; 
and  it  has  never  occurred  to  a  logical  people  that  the  interest 
of  the  greater,  the  general,  need  be  sacrificed  to  that  of  the 
less,  the  particular.  Such  sacrifices  strike  them  as  gratuitous 
and  barbarous,  as  cruel  above  all  to  the  social  intelligence ; 
also  as  perfectly  preventable  by  wise  arrangement.  Nothing 
comes  home  more,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  observer  of 
English  manners  than  the  very  moderate  degree  in  which 
wise  arrangement,  in  the  French  sense  of  a  scientific  economy, 
has  ever  been  invoked  j  a  fact  indeed  largely  explaining  the 

x 


PREFACE 

great  interest  of  their  incoherence,  their  heterogeneity,  their 
wild  abundance.  The  French,  all  analytically,  have  conceived 
of  fifty  different  proprieties,  meeting  fifty  different  cases, 
whereas  the  English  mind,  less  intensely  at  work,  has  never 
conceived  but  of  one  —  the  grand  propriety,  for  every  case, 
it  should  in  fairness  be  said,  of  just  being  English.  As  prac 
tice,  however,  has  always  to  be  a  looser  thing  than  theory,  so 
no  application  of  that  rigour  has  been  possible  in  the  London 
world  without  a  thousand  departures  from  the  grim  ideal. 

The  American  theory,  if  I  may  "  drag  it  in,"  would  be, 
I  think,  that  talk  should  never  become  "  better  "  than  the 
female  young,  either  actually  or  constructively  present,  are 
minded  to  allow  it.  That  system  involves  as  little  compro 
mise  as  the  French ;  it  has  been  absolutely  simple,  and  the 
beauty  of  its  success  shines  out  in  every  record  of  our  con 
ditions  of  intercourse  —  premising  always  our  "basic" 
assumption  that  the  female  young  read  the  newspapers.  The 
English  theory  may  be  in  itself  almost  as  simple,  but  differ 
ent  and  much  more  complex  forces  have  ruled  the  applica 
tion  of  it ;  so  much  does  the  goodness  of  talk  depend  on 
what  there  may  be  to  talk  about.  There  are  more  things  in 
London,  I  think,  than  anywhere  in  the  world ;  hence  the 
charm  of  the  dramatic  struggle  reflected  in  my  book,  the 
struggle  somehow  to  fit  propriety  into  a  smooth  general  case 
which  is  really  all  the  while  bristling  and  crumbling  into 
fierce  particular  ones.  The  circle  surrounding  Mrs.  Brook- 
enham,  in  my  pages,  is  of  course  nothing  if  not  a  particular, 
even  a  "peculiar  "one  —  and  its  rather  vain  effort  (the  vanity, 
the  real  inexpertness,  being  precisely  part  of  my  tale)  is 
toward  the  courage  of  that  condition.  It  has  cropped  up  in 
a  social  order  where  individual  appreciations  of  propriety  have 
not  been  formally  allowed  for,  in  spite  of  their  having  very 
often  quite  rudely  and  violently  and  insolently,  rather  of 
course  than  insidiously,  flourished ;  so  that  as  the  matter 
stands,  rightly  or  wrongly,  Nanda's  retarded,  but  eventually 
none  the  less  real,  incorporation  means  virtually  Nanda's 
exposure.  It  means  this,  that  is,  and  many  things  beside  — 
means  them  for  Nanda  herself  and,  with  a  various  intensity, 

xi 


PREFACE 

for  the  other  participants  in  the  action ;  but  what  it  partic 
ularly  means,  surely,  is  the  failure  of  successful  arrange 
ment  and  the  very  moral,  sharply  pointed,  of  the  fruits  of 
compromise.  It  is  compromise  that  has  suffered  her  to  be  in 
question  at  all,  and  that  has  condemned  the  freedom  of  the 
circle  to  be  self-conscious,  compunctious,  on  the  whole  much 
more  timid  than  brave  —  the  consequent  muddle,  if  the  term 
be  not  too  gross,  representing  meanwhile  a  great  inconven 
ience  for  life,  but,  as  I  found  myself  feeling,  an  immense 
promise,  a  much  greater  one  than  on  the  "  foreign  "  showing, 
for  the  painted  picture  of  life.  Beyond  which  let  me  add 
that  here  immediately  is  a  prime  specimen  of  the  way  in 
which  the  obscurer,  the  lurking  relations  of  a  motive  appar 
ently  simple,  always  in  wait  for  their  spring,  may  by  seizing 
their  chance  for  it  send  simplicity  flying.  Poor  Nanda's  little 
case,  and  her  mother's,  and  Mr.  Longdon's  and  Vander- 
bank's  and  Mitchy's,  to  say  nothing  of  that  of  the  others,  has 
only  to  catch  a  reflected  light  from  over  the  Channel  in  order 
to  double  at  once  its  appeal  to  the  imagination.  (I  am  con 
sidering  all  these  matters,  I  need  scarce  say,  only  as  they  are 
concerned  with  that  faculty.  With  a  relation  not  imaginative 
to  his  material  the  storyteller  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.) 
It  exactly  happened  moreover  that  my  own  material  here 
was  to  profit  in  a  particular  way  by  that  extension  of  view. 
My  idea  was  to  be  treated  with  light  irony  —  it  would  be 
light  and  ironical  or  it  would  be  nothing ;  so  that  I  asked 
myself,  naturally,  what  might  be  the  least  solemn  form  to 
give  it,  among  recognised  and  familiar  forms.  The  question 
thus  at  once  arose  :  What  form  so  familiar,  so  recognised 
among  alert  readers,  as  that  in  which  the  ingenious  and  in 
exhaustible,  the  charming  philosophic  "  Gyp  "  casts  most 
of  her  social  studies  ?  Gyp  had  long  struck  me  as  mistress, 
in  her  levity,  of  one  of  the  happiest  of  forms  —  the  only 
objection  to  my  use  of  which  was  a  certain  extraordinary 
benightedness  on  the  part  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  reader.  One 
had  noted  this  reader  as  perverse  and  inconsequent  in  respect 
to  the  absorption  of  "  dialogue  "  —  observed  the  "  public  for 
fiction"  consume  it,  in  certain  connexions,  on  the  scale  and 

xii 


PREFACE 

with  the  smack  of  lips  that  mark  the  consumption  of  bread- 
and-jam  by  a  children's  school-feast,  consume  it  even  at  the 
theatre,  so  far  as  our  theatre  ever  vouchsafes  it,  and  yet  as 
flagrantly  reject  it  when  served,  so  to  speak,  au  nature/.  One 
had  seen  good  solid  slices  of  fiction,  well  endued,  one  might 
surely  have  thought,  with  this  easiest  of  lubrications,  de 
plored  by  editor  and  publisher  as  positively  not,  for  the 
general  gullet  as  known  to  them,  made  adequately  "  slick." 
" 4  Dialogue,'  always  c  dialogue ' ! "  I  had  seemed  from  far 
back  to  hear  them  mostly  cry :  "  We  can't  have  too  much 
of  it,  we  can't  have  enough  of  it,  and  no  excess  of  it,  in  the 
form  of  no  matter  what  savourless  dilution,  or  what  boneless 
dispersion,  ever  began  to  injure  a  book  so  much  as  even  the 
very  scantest  claim  put  in  for  form  and  substance."  This 
wisdom  had  always  been  in  one's  ears ;  but  it  had  at  the  same 
time  been  equally  in  one's  eyes  that  really  constructive  dia 
logue,  dialogue  organic  and  dramatic,  speaking  for  itself,  re 
presenting  and  embodying  substance  and  form,  is  among  us 
an  uncanny  and  abhorrent  thing,  not  to  be  dealt  with  on  any 
terms.  A  comedy  or  a  tragedy  may  run  for  a  thousand  nights 
without  prompting  twenty  persons  in  London  or  in  New 
York  to  desire  that  view  of  its  text  which  is  so  desired  in 
Paris,  as  soon  as  a  play  begins  to  loom  at  all  large,  that  the 
number  of  copies  of  the  printed  piece  in  circulation  far  ex 
ceeds  at  last  the  number  of  performances.  But  as  with  the 
printed  piece  our  own  public,  infatuated  as  it  may  be  with 
the  theatre,  refuses  all  commerce  —  though  indeed  this  can't 
but  be,  without  cynicism,  very  much  through  the  infirmity  the 
piece,  //"printed,  would  reveal  —  so  the  same  horror  seems 
to  attach  to  any  typographic  hint  of  the  proscribed  playbook 
or  any  insidious  plea  for  it.  The  immense  oddity  resides  in 
the  almost  exclusively  typographic  order  of  the  offence.  An 
English,  an  American  Gyp  would  typographically  offend,  and 
that  would  be  the  end  of  her.  There  gloomed  at  me  my 
warning,  as  well  as  shone  at  me  my  provocation,  in  respect 
to  the  example  of  this  delightful  writer.  I  might  emulate 
her,  since  I  presumptuously  would,  but  dishonour  would 
await  me  if,  proposing  to  treat  the  different  faces  of  my 

xiii 


PREFACE 

subject  in  the  most  completely  instituted  colloquial  form, 
I  should  evoke  the  figure  and  affirm  the  presence  of  parti 
cipants  by  the  repeated  and  prefixed  name  rather  than  by 
the  recurrent  and  affixed  "  said  he  "  and  "  said  she."  All 
I  have  space  to  go  into  here  —  much  as  the  funny  fact  I  re 
fer  to  might  seem  to  invite  us  to  dance  hand  in  hand  round 
it  —  is  that  I  was  at  any  rate  duly  admonished,  that  I  took 
my  measures  accordingly,  and  that  the  manner  in  which 
I  took  them  has  lived  again  for  me  ever  so  arrestingly,  so 
amusingly,  on  re-examination  of  the  book. 

But  that  I  did,  positively  and  seriously  —  ah  so  seriously! 
—  emulate  the  levity  of  Gyp  and,  by  t'\e  same  token,  of  that 
hardiest  of  flowers  fostered  in  her  school,  M.  Henri  Lave- 
dan,  is  a  contribution  to  the  history  of  u  The  Awkward 
Age  "  that  I  shall  obviously  have  had  to  brace  myself  in 
order  to  make.  Vivid  enough  to  me  the  expression  of  face 
of  any  kindest  of  critics,  even,  moved  to  declare  that  he 
would  never  in  the  least  have  suspected  it.  Let  me  say  at 
once,  in  extenuation  of  the  too  respectful  distance  at  which 
I  may  thus  have  appeared  to  follow  my  model,  that  my 
first  care  had  to  be  the  covering  of  my  tracks  —  lest  I  truly 
should  be  caught  in  the  act  of  arranging,  of  organising  dia 
logue  to  "  speak  for  itself."  What  I  now  see  to  have  hap 
pened  is  that  I  organised  and  arranged  but  too  well  —  too 
well,  I  mean,  for  any  betrayal  of  the  Gyp  taint,  however 
faded  and  feeble.  The  trouble  appears  to  have  been  that 
while  I  on  the  one  hand  exorcised  the  baleful  association, 
I  succeeded  in  rousing  on  nobody's  part  a  sense  of  any  other 
association  whatever,  or  of  my  having  cast  myself  into  any 
conceivable  or  calculable  form.  My  private  inspiration  had 
been  in  the  Gyp  plan  (artfully  dissimulated,  for  dear  life, 
and  applied  with  the  very  subtlest  consistency,  but  none  the 
less  kept  in  secret  view)  ;  yet  I  was  to  fail  to  make  out  in 
the  event  that  the  book  succeeded  in  producing  the  impres 
sion  of  any  plan  on  any  person.  No  hint  of  that  sort  of 
success,  or  of  any  critical  perception  at  all  in  relation  to  the 
business,  has  ever  come  my  way ;  in  spite  of  which  when 
I  speak,  as  just  above,  of  what  was  to  "  happen  "  under  the 

xiv 


PREFACE 

law  of  my  ingenious  labour,  I  fairly  lose  myself  in  the  vision 
of  a  hundred  bright  phenomena.  Some  of  these  incidents 
I  must  treat  myself  to  naming,  for  they  are  among  the  best 
I  shall  have  on  any  occasion  to  retail.  But  I  must  first  give 
the  measure  of  the  degree  in  which  they  were  mere  matters 
of  the  study.  This  composition  had  originally  appeared  in 
"Harper's  Weekly"  during  the  autumn  of  1898  and  the 
first  weeks  of  the  winter,  and  the  volume  containing  it  was 
published  that  spring.  I  had  meanwhile  been  absent  from 
England,  and  it  was  not  till  my  return,  some  time  later,  that 
I  had  from  my  publisher  any  news  of  our  venture.  But  the 
news  then  met  at  a  stroke  all  my  curiosity :  "  I  'm  sorry  to 
say  the  book  has  done  nothing  to  speak  of;  I  've  never  in  all 
my  experience  seen  one  treated  with  more  general  and  com 
plete  disrespect."  There  was  thus  to  be  nothing  left  me  for 
fond  subsequent  reference  —  of  which  I  doubtless  give  even 
now  so  adequate  an  illustration  —  save  the  rich  reward  of 
the  singular  interest  attaching  to  the  very  intimacies  of  the 
effort. 

It  comes  back  to  me,  the  whole  "job,"  as  wonderfully 
amusing  and  delightfully  difficult  from  the  first;  since 
amusement  deeply  abides,  I  think,  in  any  artistic  attempt 
the  basis  and  groundwork  of  which  are  conscious  of  a  partic 
ular  firmness.  On  that  hard  fine  floor  the  element  of  execu 
tion  feels  it  may  more  or  less  confidently  dance ;  in  which  case 
puzzling  qsestions,  sharp  obstacles,  dangers  of  detail,  may 
come  up  for  it  by  the  dozen  without  breaking  its  heart  or 
shaking  its  nerve.  It  is  the  difficulty  produced  by  the  loose 
foundation  or  the  vague  scheme  that  breaks  the  heart  — 
when  a  luckless  fatuity  has  over-persuaded  an  author  of  the 
"saving"  virtue  of  treatment.  Being  "treated"  is  never, 
in  a  workable  idea,  a  mere  passive  condition,  and  I  hold 
no  subject  ever  susceptible  of  help  that  is  n't,  like  the  embar 
rassed  man  of  our  proverbial  wisdom,  first  of  all  able  to  help 
itself.  I  was  thus  to  have  here  an  envious  glimpse,  in  carry 
ing  my  design  through,  of  that  artistic  rage  and  that  artistic 
felicity  which  I  have  ever  supposed  to  be  intensest  and  high 
est,  the  confidence  of  the  dramatist  strong  in  the  sense  of  his 

XV 


PREFACE 

postulate.  The  dramatist  has  verily  to  build ^  is  committed 
to  architecture,  to  construction  at  any  cost ;  to  driving  in 
deep  his  vertical  supports  and  laying  across  and  firmly  fixing 
his  horizontal,  his  resting  pieces  —  at  the  risk  of  no  matter 
what  vibration  from  the  tap  of  his  master-hammer.  This 
makes  the  active  value  of  his  basis  immense,  enabling  him, 
with  his  flanks  protected,  to  advance  undistractedly,  even 
if  not  at  all  carelessly,  into  the  comparative  fairy-land  of  the 
mere  minor  anxiety.  In  other  words  his  scheme  holds,  and 
as  he  feels  this  in  spite  of  noted  strains  and  under  repeated 
tests,  so  he  keeps  his  face  to  the  day.  I  rejoiced,  by  that 
same  token,  to  feel  my  scheme  hold,  and  even  a  little  rue 
fully  watched  it  give  me  much  more  than  I  had  ventured  to 
hope.  For  I  promptly  found  my  conceived  arrangement  of 
my  material  open  the  door  wide  to  ingenuity.  I  remember 
that  in  sketching  my  project  for  the  conductors  of  the  peri 
odical  I  have  named  I  drew  on  a  sheet  of  paper  —  and  pos 
sibly  with  an  effect  of  the  cabalistic,  it  now  comes  over  me, 
that  even  anxious  amplification  may  have  but  vainly  attenu 
ated  —  the  neat  figure  of  a  circle  consisting  of  a  number  of 
small  rounds  disposed  at  equal  distance  about  a  central  ob 
ject.  The  central  object  was  my  situation,  my  subject  in 
itself,  to  which  the  thing  would  owe  its  title,  and  the  small 
rounds  represented  so  many  distinct  lamps,  as  I  liked  to  call 
them,  the  function  of  each  of  which  would  be  to  light  with 
all  due  intensity  one  of  its  aspects.  I  had  divided  it,  didn't 
they  see  ?  into  aspects  —  uncanny  as  the  little  term  might 
sound  (though  not  for  a  moment  did  I  suggest  we  should  use 
it  for  the  public),  and  by  that  sign  we  would  conquer. 

They  "  saw,"  all  genially  and  generously  —  for  I  must  add 
that  I  had  made,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  no  morbid 
scruple  of  not  blabbing  about  Gyp  and  her  strange  incite 
ment.  I  the  more  boldly  held  my  tongue  over  this  that  the 
more  I,  by  my  intelligence,  lived  in  my  arrangement  and 
moved  about  in  it,  the  more  I  sank  into  satisfaction.  It  was 
clearly  to  work  to  a  charm  and,  during  this  process  —  by 
calling  at  every  step  for  an  exquisite  management  —  "  to 
haunt,  to  startle  and  waylay."  Each  of  my  "  lamps  "  would 

.  xvi 


PREFACE 

be  the  light  of  a  single  "  social  occasion  "  in  the  history  and 
intercourse  of  the  characters  concerned,  and  would  bring  out 
to  the  full  the  latent  colour  of  the  scene  in  question  and 
cause  it  to  illustrate,  to  the  last  drop,  its  bearing  on  my  theme. 
I  revelled  in  this  notion  of  the  Occasion  as  a  thing  by  itself, 
really  and  completely  a  scenic  thing,  and  could  scarce  name 
it,  while  crouching  amid  the  thick  arcana  of  my  plan,  with 
a  large  enough  O.  The  beauty  of  the  conception  was  in 
this  approximation  of  the  respective  divisions  of  my  form  to 
the  successive  Acts  of  a  Play  —  as  to  which  it  was  more 
than  ever  a  case  for  charmed  capitals.  The  divine  distinc 
tion  of  the  act  of  a  play  —  and  a  greater  than  any  other  it 
easily  succeeds  in  arriving  at  — was,  I  reasoned,  in  its  special, 
its  guarded  objectivity.  This  objectivity,  in  turn,  when 
achieving  its  ideal,  came  from  the  imposed  absence  of  that 
"  going  behind,"  to  compass  explanations  and  amplifications, 
to  drag  out  odds  and  ends  from  the  "  mere  "  storyteller's 
great  property-shop  of  aids  to  illusion:  a  resource  under 
denial  of  which  it  was  equally  perplexing  and  delightful,  for 
a  change,  to  proceed.  Everything,  for  that  matter,  becomes 
interesting  from  the  moment  it  has  closely  to  consider,  for 
full  effect  positively  to  bestride,  the  law  of  its  kind.  "  Kinds  " 
are  the  very  life  of  literature,  and  truth  and  strength  come 
from  the  complete  recognition  of  them,  from  abounding  to 
the  utmost  in  their  respective  senses  and  sinking  deep  into 
their  consistency.  I  myself  have  scarcely  to  plead  the  cause 
of  "  going  behind,"  which  is  right  and  beautiful  and  fruitful 
in  its  place  and  order ;  but  as  the  confusion  of  kinds  is  the 
inelegance  of  letters  and  the  stultification  of  values,  so  to 
renounce  that  line  utterly  and  do  something  quite  different 
instead  may  become  in  another  connexion  the  true  course 
and  the  vehicle  of  effect.  Something  in  the  very  nature,  in 
the  fine  rigour,  of  this  special  sacrifice  (which  is  capable  of 
affecting  the  form-lover,  I  think,  as  really  more  of  a  pro 
jected  form  than  any  other)  lends  it  moreover  a  coercive 
charm ;  a  charm  that  grows  in  proportion  as  the  appeal  to 
it  tests  and  stretches  and  strains  it,  puts  it  powerfully  to  the 
touch.  To  make  the  presented  occasion  tell  all  its  story 

xvii 


PREFACE 

itself,  remain  shut  up  in  its  own  presence  and  yet  on  that 
patch  of  staked-out  ground  become  thoroughly  interesting 
and  remain  thoroughly  clear,  is  a  process  not  remarkable, 
no  doubt,  so  long  as  a  very  light  weight  is  laid  on  it,  but 
difficult  enough  to  challenge  and  inspire  great  adroitness 
so  soon  as  the  elements  to  be  dealt  with  begin  at  all  to 
"  size  up." 

The  disdainers  of  the  contemporary  drama  deny,  obvious 
ly,  with  all  promptness,  that  the  matter  to  be  expressed  by  its 
means — richly  and  successfully  expressed  that  is — can  loom 
with  any  largeness ;  since  from  the  moment  it  does  one  of 
the  conditions  breaks  down.  The  process  simply  collapses 
under  pressure,  they  contend,  proves  its  weakness  as  quickly 
as  the  office  laid  on  it  ceases  to  be  simple.  "Remember," 
they  say  to  the  dramatist,"  that  you  have  to  be,  supremely, 
three  things  :  you  have  to  be  true  to  your  form,  you  have  to 
be  interesting,  you  have  to  be  clear.  You  have  in  other  words 
to  prove  yourself  r.dcquate  to  taking  a  heavy  weight.  But 
we  defy  you  really  to  conform  to  your  conditions  with  any 
but  a  light  one.  Make  the  thing  you  have  to  convey,  make 
the  picture  you  have  to  paint,  at  all  rich  and  complex,  and 
you  cease  to  be  clear.  Remain  clear  —  and  with  the  clear 
ness  required  by  the  infantine  intelligence  of  any  public  con 
senting  to  see  a  play  —  and  what  becomes  of  the  '  import 
ance  '  of  your  subject  ?  If  it 's  important  by  any  other  critical 
meaeure  than  the  little  foot-rule  the  l  produced '  piece  has 
to  conform  to,  it  is  predestined  to  be  a  muddle.  When  it 
has  escaped  being  a  muddle  the  note  it  has  succeeded  in 
striking  at  the  furthest  will  be  recognised  as  one  of  those 
that  are  called  high  but  by  the  courtesy,  by  the  intellectual 
provinciality,  of  theatrical  criticism,  which,  as  we  can  see 
for  ourselves  any  morning,  is  —  well,  an  abyss  even  deeper 
than  the  theatre  itself.  Don't  attempt  to  crush  us  with  Dumas 
and  Ibsen,  for  such  values  are  from  any  informed  and 
enlightened  point  of  view,  that  is  measured  by  other  high 
values,  literary,  critical,  philosophic,  of  the  most  moderate 
order.  Ibsen  and  Dumas  are  precisely  cases  of  men,  men 
in  their  degree,  in  their  poor  theatrical  straight-jacket,  specu- 

xviii 


PREFACE 

lative,  who  have  bad  to  renounce  the  finer  thing  for  the 
coarser,  the  thick,  in  short,  for  the  thin  and  the  curious  for 
the  self-evident.  What  earthly  intellectual  distinction,  what 
4  prestige  '  of  achievement,  would  have  attached  to  the  sub 
stance  of  such  things  as  '  Denise,'  as  '  Monsieur  Alphonse,' 
as  '  Francillon '  (and  we  take  the  Dumas  of  the  supposedly 
subtler  period)  in  any  other  form  ?  What  virtues  of  the 
same  order  would  have  attached  to  *  The  Pillars  of  Society,' 
to  l  An  Enemy  of  the  People,'  to  *  Ghosts,'  to  c  Rosmers- 
holm '  (or  taking  also  Ibsen's  *  subtler  period ')  to  l  John 
Gabriel  Borkmann,'  to  c  The  Master-Builder '  ?  Ibsen  is  in 
fact  wonderfully  a  case  in  point,  since  from  the  moment  he 's 
clear,  from  the  moment  he 's  l  amusing,'  it 's  on  the  footing 
of  a  thesis  as  simple  and  superficial  as  that  of  *  A  Doll's 
House '  —  while  from  the  moment  he 's  by  apparent  inten 
tion  comprehensive  and  searching  it 's  on  the  footing  of  an 
effect  as  confused  and  obscure  as  l  The  Wild  Duck.'  From 
which  you  easily  see  all  the  conditions  can't  be  met.  The 
dramatist  has  to  choose  but  those  he  's  most  capable  of,  and 
by  that  choice  he 's  known." 

So  the  objector  concludes,  and  never  surely  without  great 
profit  from  his  having  been  "  drawn."  His  apparent  triumph 
—  if  it  be  even  apparent  —  still  leaves,  it  will  be  noted,  con 
venient  cover  for  retort  in  the  riddled  face  of  the  opposite 
stronghold.  The  last  word  in  these  cases  is  for  nobody  who 
can't  pretend  to  an  absolute  test.  The  terms  here  used,  ob 
viously,  are  matters  of  appreciation,  and  there  is  no  short  cut 
to  proof  (luckily  for  us  all  round)  either  that  "  Monsieur 
Alphonse  "  develops  itself  on  the  highest  plane  of  irony  or 
that  "  Ghosts  "  simplifies  almost  to  excruciation.  If  "  John 
Gabriel  Borkmann  "  is  but  a  pennyworth  of  effect  as  to  a 
character  we  can  imagine  much  more  amply  presented,  and 
if"  Hedda  Gabler"  makes  an  appeal  enfeebled  by  remarkable 
vagueness,  there  is  by  the  nature  of  the  case  no  catching 
the  convinced,  or  call  him  the  deluded,  spectator  or  reader 
in  the  act  of  a  mistake.  He  is  to  be  caught  at  the  worst  in 
the  act  of  attention,  of  the  very  greatest  attention,  and  that 
is  all,  as  a  precious  preliminary  at  least,  that  the  playwright 

xix 


PREFACE 

asks  of  him,  besides  being  all  the  very  divinest  poet  can  get. 
I  remember  rejoicing  as  much  to  remark  this,  after  getting 
launched  in  "  The  Awkward  Age,"  as  if  I  were  in  fact  con 
structing  a  play  ;  just  as  I  may  doubtless  appear  now  not  less 
anxious  to  keep  the  philosophy  of  the  dramatist's  course 
before  me  than  if  I  belonged  to  his  order.  I  felt,  certainly, 
the  support  he  feels,  I  participated  in  his  technical  amuse 
ment,  I  tasted  to  the  full  the  bitter-sweetness  of  his  draught 
—  the  beauty  and  the  difficulty  (to  harp  again  on  that  string) 
of  escaping  poverty  even  though  the  references  in  one's  action 
can  only  be,  with  intensity,  to  each  other,  to  things  exactly 
on  the  same  plane  of  exhibition  with  themselves.  Exhibi 
tion  may  mean  in  a  "  story  "  twenty  different  ways,  fifty 
excursions,  alternatives,  excrescences,  and  the  novel,  as 
largely  practised  in  English,  is  the  perfect  paradise  of  the 
loose  end.  The  play  consents  to  the  logic  of  but  one  way, 
mathematically  right,  and  with  the  loose  end  as  gross  an 
impertinence  on  its  surface,  and  as  grave  a  dishonour,  as 
the  dangle  of  a  snippet  of  silk  or  wool  on  the  right  side  of  a 
tapestry.  We  are  shut  up  wholly  to  cross-relations,  relations 
all  within  the  action  itself;  no  part  of  which  is  related  to 
anything  but  some  other  part  —  save  of  course  by  the  relation 
of  the  total  to  life.  And,  after  invoking  the  protection  of 
Gyp,  I  saw  the  point  of  my  game  all  in  the  problem  of  keep 
ing  these  conditioned  relations  crystalline  at  the  same  time 
that  I  should,  in  emulation  of  life,  consent  to  their  being 
numerous  and  fine  and  characteristic  of  the  London  world 
(as  the  London  world  was  in  this  quarter  and  that  to  be 
deciphered).  All  of  which  was  to  make  in  the  event  for  com 
plications. 

I  see  now  of  course  how  far,  with  my  complications,  I  got 
away  from  Gyp ;  but  I  see  to-day  so  much  else  too  that  this 
particular  deflexion  from  simplicity  makes  scarce  a  figure 
among  the  others;  after  having  once  served  its  purpose,  I 
mean,  of  lighting  my  original  imitative  innocence.  For  I  re 
cognise  in  especial,  with  a  waking  vibration  of  that  interest 
in  which,  as  I  say,  the  plan  of  the  book  is  embalmed  for  me, 
that  my  subject  was  probably  condemned  in  advance  to 

xx 


PREFACE 

appreciable,  or  more  exactly  perhaps  to  almost  preposterously 
appreciative,  over-treatment.  It  places  itself  for  me  thus  in 
a  group  of  small  productions  exhibiting  this  perversity,  repre 
sentations  of  conceived  cases  in  which  my  process  has  been 
to  pump  the  case  gaspingly  dry,  dry  not  only  of  superfluous 
moisture,  but  absolutely  (for  I  have  encountered  the  charge) 
of  breatheable  air.  I  may  note,  in  fine,  that  coming  back  to 
the  pages  before  us  with  a  strong  impression  of  their  record 
ing,  to  my  shame,  that  disaster,  even  to  the  extent  of  its 
disqualifying  them  for  decent  reappearance,  I  have  found  the 
adventure  taking,  to  my  relief,  quite  another  turn,  and  have 
lost  myself  in  the  wonder  of  what "  over-treatment "  may,  in 
the  detail  of  its  desperate  ingenuity,  consist  of.  The  revived 
interest  I  speak  of  has  been  therefore  that  of  following  critic 
ally,  from  page  to  page,  even  as  the  red  Indian  tracks  in  the 
forest  the  pale-face,  the  footsteps  of  the  systematic  loyalty 
I  was  able  to  achieve.  The  amusement  of  this  constatation  is, 
as  I  have  hinted,  in  the  detail  of  the  matter,  and  the  detail  is 
so  dense,  the  texture  of  the  figured  and  smoothed  tapestry  so 
close,  that  the  genius  of  Gyp  herself,  muse  of  general  loose 
ness,  would  certainly,  once  warned,  have  uttered  the  first 
disavowal  of  my  homage.  But  what  has  occurred  meanwhile 
is  that  this  high  consistency  has  itself,  so  to  speak,  consti 
tuted  an  exhibition,  and  that  an  important  artistic  truth  has 
seemed  to  me  thereby  lighted.  We  brushed  against  that 
truth  just  now  in  our  glance  at  the  denial  of  expansibility 
to  any  idea  the  mould  of  the  "stage-play"  may  hope  to 
express  without  cracking  and  bursting;  and  we  bear  in 
mind  at  the  same  time  that  the  picture  of  Nanda  Brook- 
enham's  situation,  though  perhaps  seeming  to  a  careless  eye 
so  to  wander  and  sprawl,  yet  presents  itself  on  absolutely 
scenic  lines,  and  that  each  of  these  scenes  in  itself,  and  each 
as  related  to  each  and  to  all  of  its  companions,  abides  without 
a  moment's  deflexion  by  the  principle  of  the  stage-play. 

In  doing  this  then  it  does  more  —  it  helps  us  ever  so  hap 
pily  to  see  the  grave  distinction  between  substance  and  form 
in  a  really  wrought  work  of  art  signally  break  down.  I  hold 
it  impossible  to  say,  before  "  The  Awkward  Age,"  where 

xxi 


PREFACE 

one  of  these  elements  ends  and  the  other  begins  :  I  have 
been  unable  at  least  myself,  on  re-examination,  to  mark  any 
such  joint  or  seam,  to  see  the  two  discharged  offices  as  sepa 
rate.  They  are  separate  before  the  fact,  but  the  sacrament  of 
execution  indissolubly  marries  them,  and  the  marriage,  like 
any  other  marriage,  has  only  to  be  a"  true  "  one  for  the  scan 
dal  of  a  breach  not  to  show.  The  thing  "  done,"  artistically, 
is  a  fusion,  or  it  has  not  been  done  —  in  which  case  of  course 
the  artist  may  be,  and  all  deservedly,  pelted  with  any  frag 
ment  of  his  botch  the  critic  shall  choose  to  pick  up.  But 
his  ground  once  conquered,  in  this  particular  field,  he  knows 
nothing  of  fragments  and  may  say  in  all  security :  u  Detach 
one  if  you  can.  You  can  analyse  in  your  way,  oh  yes  —  to 
relate,  to  report,  to  explain ;  but  you  can't  disintegrate  my 
synthesis ;  you  can't  resolve  the  elements  of  my  whole  into 
different  responsible  agents  or  find  your  way  at  all  (for  your 
own  fell  purpose).  My  mixture  has  only  to  be  perfect  liter 
ally  to  bewilder  you  —  you  are  lost  in  the  tangle  of  the  forest. 
Prove  this  value,  this  effect,  in  the  air  of  the  whole  result, 
to  be  of  my  subject,  and  that  other  value,  other  effect,  to  be 
of  my  treatment,  prove  that  I  haven't  so  shaken  them  to 
gether  as  the  conjurer  I  profess  to  be  must  consummately 
shake,  and  I  consent  but  to  parade  as  before  a  booth  at  the 
fair."  The  exemplary  closeness  of  "  The  Awkward  Age  " 
even  affects  me,  on  re-perusal,  I  confess,  as  treasure  quite 
instinctively  and  foreseeingly  laid  up  against  my  present 
opportunity  for  these  remarks.  I  have  been  positively  struck 
by  the  quantity  of  meaning  and  the  number  of  intentions, 
the  extent  of  ground  for  interest,  as  I  may  call  it,  that  I  have 
succeeded  in  working  scenically,  yet  without  loss  of  sharp 
ness,  clearness  or  "  atmosphere,"  into  each  of  my  illum 
inating  Occasions  —  where,  at  certain  junctures,  the  due 
preservation  of  all  these  values  took,  in  the  familiar  phrase, 
a  good  deal  of  doing. 

I  should  have  liked  just  here  to  re-examine  with  the  reader 
some  of  the  positively  most  artful  passages  I  have  in  mind — 
such  as  the  hour  of  Mr.  Longdon's  beautiful  and,  as  it  were, 
mystic  attempt  at  a  compact  with  Vanderbank,  late  at  night, 

xxii 


PREFACE 

in  the  billiard-room  of  the  country-house  at  which  they  are 
staying;  such  as  the  other  nocturnal  passage,  under  Mr. 
Longdon's  roof,  between  Vanderbank  and  Mitchy,  where 
the  conduct  of  so  much  fine  meaning,  so  many  flares  of  the 
exhibitory  torch  through  the  labyrinth  of  mere  immediate 
appearances,  mere  familiar  allusions,  is  successfully  and 
safely  effected ;  such  as  the  whole  array  of  the  terms  of  pre 
sentation  that  are  made  to  serve,  all  systematically,  yet  with 
out  a  gap  anywhere,  for  the  presentation,  throughout,  of  a 
Mitchy  "  subtle  "  no  less  than  concrete  and  concrete  no  less 
than  deprived  of  that  officious  explanation  which  we  know 
as  "going  behind"  ;  such  as,  briefly,  the  general  service  of 
co-ordination  and  vivification  rendered,  on  lines  of  ferocious, 
of  really  quite  heroic  compression,  by  the  picture  of  the 
assembled  group  at  Mrs.  Grendon's,  where  the  "  cross- 
references"  of  the  action  are  as  thick  as  the  green  leaves 
of  a  garden,  but  none  the  less,  as  they  have  scenically  to  be, 
counted  and  disposed,  weighted  with  responsibility.  Were 
I  minded  to  use  in  this  connexion  a  "loud"  word — and 
the  critic  in  general  hates  loud  words  as  a  man  of  taste  may 
hate  loud  colours  —  I  should  speak  of  the  composition  of  the 
chapters  entitled  "  Tishy  Grendon,"  with  all  the  pieces  of 
the  game  on  the  table  together  and  each  unconfusedly  and 
contributively  placed,  as  triumphantly  scientific.  I  must 
properly  remind  myself,  rather,  that  the  better  lesson  of  my 
retrospect  would  seem  to  be  really  a  supreme  revision  of 
the  question  of  what  it  may  be  for  a  subject  to  suffer,  to  call 
it  suffering,  by  over-treatment.  Bowed  down  so  long  by  the 
inference  that  its  product  had  in  this  case  proved  such  a 
betrayal,  my  artistic  conscience  meets  the  relief  of  having 
to  recognise  truly  here  no  traces  of  suffering.  The  thing 
carries  itself  to  my  maturer  and  gratified  sense  as  with  every 
symptom  of  soundness,  an  insolence  of  health  and  joy.  And 
from  this  precisely  I  deduce  my  moral ;  which  is  to  the  effect 
that,  since  our  only  way,  in  general,  of  knowing  that  we  have 
had  too  much  of  anything  is  by  feeling  that  too  much:  so,  by 
the  same  token,  when  we  don't  feel  the  excess  (and  I  am 
contending,  mind,  that  in  "  The  Awkward  Age  "  the  multi- 

xxiii 


PREFACE 

plicity  yields  to  the  order)  how  do  we  know  that  the  measure 
not  recorded,  the  notch  not  reached,  does  represent  adequacy 
or  satiety?  The  mere  feeling  helps  us  for  certain  degrees  of 
congestion,  but  for  exact  science,  that  is  for  the  criticism  of 
"fine"  art,  we  want  the  notation.  The  notation,  however, 
is  what  we  lack,  and  the  verdict  of  the  mere  feeling  is  liable 
to  fluctuate.  In  other  words  an  imputed  defect  is  never,  at 
the  worst,  disengageable,  or  other  than  matter  for  apprecia 
tion  —  to  come  back  to  my  claim  for  that  felicity  of  the 
dramatist's  case  that  his  synthetic  "  whole  "  is  his  form,  the 
only  one  we  have  to  do  with.  I  like  to  profit  in  his  company 
by  the  fact  that  if  our  art  has  certainly,  for  the  impression 
it  produces,  to  defer  to  the  rise  and  fall,  in  the  critical  tem 
perature,  of  the  telltale  mercury,  it  still  has  n't  to  reckon  with 
the  engraved  thermometer-face. 

HENRY  JAMES. 


BOOK  FIRST 
LADY  JULIA 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 


SAVE  when  it  happened  to  rain  Vanderbank  always 
walked  home,  but  he  usually  took  a  hansom  when  the 
rain  was  moderate  and  adopted  the  preference  of  the 
philosopher  when  it  was  heavy.  On  this  occasion  he 
therefore  recognised  as  the  servant  opened  the  door  a 
congruity  between  the  weather  and  the  "  four-wheeler  " 
that,  in  the  empty  street,  under  the  glazed  radiance, 
waited  and  trickled  and  blackly  glittered.  The  but 
ler  mentioned  it  as  on  such  a  wild  night  the  only 
thing  they  could  get,  and  Vanderbank,  having  replied 
that  it  was  exactly  what  would  do  best,  prepared  in 
the  doorway  to  put  up  his  umbrella  and  dash  down 
to  it.  At  this  moment  he  heard  his  name  pronounced 
from  behind  and  on  turning  found  himself  joined  by 
the  elderly  fellow  guest  with  whom  he  had  talked  after 
dinner  and  about  whom  later  on  upstairs  he  had 
sounded  his  hostess.  It  was  at  present  a  clear  question 
of  how  this  amiable,  this  apparently  unassertive  per 
son  should  get  home  —  of  the  possibility  of  the  other 
cab  for  which  even  now  one  of  the  footmen,  with  a 
whistle  to  his  lips,  craned  out  his  head  and  listened 
through  the  storm.  Mr.  Longdon  wondered  to  Van 
derbank  if  their  course  might  by  any  chance  be  the 
same;  which  led  our  young  friend  immediately  to 
express  a  readiness  to  see  him  safely  in  any  direction 
that  should  accommodate  him.  As  the  footman's 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

whistle  spent  itself  in  vain  they  got  together  into  the 
four-wheeler,  where  at  the  end  of  a  few  moments  more 
Vanderbank  became  conscious  of  having  proposed 
his  own  rooms  as  a  wind-up  to  their  drive.  Would  n't 
that  be  a  better  finish  of  the  evening  than  just  separat 
ing  in  the  wet  ?  He  liked  his  new  acquaintance,  who 
struck  him  as  in  a  manner  clinging  to  him,  who  was 
staying  at  an  hotel  presumably  at  that  hour  dismal, 
and  who,  confessing  with  easy  humility  to  a  connexion 
positively  timid  with  a  club  at  which  one  could  n't 
have  a  visitor,  accepted  his  invitation  under  pressure. 
Vanderbank,  when  they  arrived,  was  amused  at  the 
air  of  added  extravagance  with  which  he  said  he 
would  keep  the  cab:  he  so  clearly  enjoyed  to  that 
extent  the  sense  of  making  a  night  of  it. 

"You  young  men,  I  believe,  keep  them  for  hours, 
eh  ?  At  least  they  did  in  my  time,"  he  laughed  —  "  the 
wild  ones !  But  I  think  of  them  as  all  wild  then.  I 
dare  say  that  when  one  settles  in  town  one  learns  how 
to  manage;  only  I  'm  afraid,  you  know,  that  I  've  got 
completely  out  of  it.  I  do  feel  really  quite  mouldy. 
It 's  a  matter  of  thirty  years  —  ! " 

"Since  you've  been  in  London?" 

"For  more  than  a  few  days  at  a  time,  upon  my 
honour.  You  won't  understand  that  —  any  more, 
I  dare  say,  than  I  myself  quite  understand  how  at  the 
end  of  all  I  've  accepted  this  queer  view  of  the  doom 
of  coming  back.  But  I  don't  doubt  I  shall  ask  you, 
if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  let  me,  for  the  help  of  a  hint 
or  two:  as  to  how  to  do,  don't  you  know?  and  not 
to  —  what  do  you  fellows  call  it  ?  —  be  done.  Now 
about  one  of  these  things  —  ! " 

4 


LADY  JULIA 

One  of  these  things  was  the  lift  in  which,  at  no  great 
pace  and  with  much  rumbling  and  creaking,  the 
porter  conveyed  the  two  gentlemen  to  the  alarming 
eminence,  as  Mr.  Longdon  measured  their  flight,  at 
which  Vanderbank  perched.  The  impression  made 
on  him  by  this  contrivance  showed  him  as  unsophis 
ticated,  yet  when  his  companion,  at  the  top,  ushering 
him  in,  gave  a  touch  to  the  quick  light  and,  in  the 
pleasant  ruddy  room,  all  convenience  and  character, 
had  before  the  fire  another  look  at  him,  it  was  not  to 
catch  in  him  any  protrusive  angle.  Mr.  Longdon  was 
slight  and  neat,  delicate  of  body  and  both  keen  and 
kind  of  face,  with  black  brows  finely  marked  and 
thick  smooth  hair  in  which  the  silver  had  deep  shad 
ows.  He  wore  neither  whisker  nor  moustache  and 
seemed  to  carry  in  the  flicker  of  his  quick  brown  eyes 
and  the  positive  sun-play  of  his  smile  even  more  than 
the  equivalent  of  what  might*  superficially  or  stupidly, 
elsewhere  be  missed  in  him;  which  was  mass,  sub 
stance,  presence  —  what  is  vulgarly  called  import 
ance.  He  had  indeed  no  presence  but  had  somehow 
an  effect.  He  might  almost  have  been  a  priest  if 
priests,  as  it  occurred  to  Vanderbank,  were  ever  such 
dandies.  He  had  at  all  events  conclusively  doubled 
the  Cape  of  the  years  —  he  would  never  again  see 
fifty-five:  to  the  warning  light  of  that  bleak  headland 
he  presented  a  back  sufficiently  conscious.  Yet  though 
to  Vanderbank  he  could  n't  look  young  he  came  near 
—  strikingly  and  amusingly  —  looking  new:  this  after 
a  minute  appeared  mainly  perhaps  indeed  in  the  per 
fection  of  his  evening  dress  and  the  special  smart 
ness  of  the  sleeveless  overcoat  he  had  evidently  had 

5 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

made  to  wear  with  it  and  might  even  actually  be  wear 
ing  for  the  first  time.  He  had  talked  to  Vanderbank 
at  Mrs.  Brookenham's  about  Beccles  and  Suffolk; 
but  it  was  not  at  Beccles  nor  anywhere  in  the  county 
that  these  ornaments  had  been  designed.  His  action 
had  already  been,  with  however  little  purpose,  to 
present  the  region  to  his  interlocutor  in  a  favourable 
light.  Vanderbank,  for  that  matter,  had  the  kind  of 
imagination  that  likes  to  place  an  object,  even  to  the 
point  of  losing  sight  of  it  in  the  conditions ;  he  already 
saw  the  nice  old  nook  it  must  have  taken  to  keep 
a  man  of  intelligence  so  fresh  while  suffering  him  to 
remain  so  fine.  The  product  of  Beccles  accepted  at  all 
events  a  cigarette  —  still  much  as  a  joke  and  an  adven 
ture  —  and  looked  about  him  as  if  even  more  pleased 
than  he  expected.  Then  he  broke,  through  his  double 
eye-glass,  into  an  exclamation  that  was  like  a  passing 
pang  of  envy  and  regret.  "  You  young  men,  you  young 
men—!" 

"Well,  what  about  us?"  Vanderbank's  tone  en 
couraged  the  courtesy  of  the  reference.  "  I  'm  not  so 
young  moreover  as  that  comes  to." 

"  How  old  are  you  then,  pray  ? " 

"Why  I'm  thirty-four." 

"What  do  you  call  that?  I'm  a  hundred  and 
three ! "  Mr.  Longdon  at  all  events  took  out  his  watch. 
"It's  only  a  quarter  past  eleven."  Then  with  a  quick 
change  of  interest,  "  What  did  you  say  is  your  public 
office?"  he  enquired. 

"The  General  Audit.    I'm  Deputy  Chairman." 

"Dear!"  Mr.  Longdon  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had 
had  fifty  windows.  "  What  a  head  you  must  have ! " 

6 


LADY  JULIA 

""Oh  yes  —  our  head's  Sir  Digby  Dence." 

"And  what  do  we  do  for  you  ?" 

"Well,  you  gild  the  pill  —  though  not  perhaps  very 
thick.  But  it's  a  decent  berth." 

"A  thing  a  good  many  fellows  would  give  a  pound 
of  their  flesh  for?" 

Vanderbank's  visitor  appeared  so  to  deprecate  too 
faint  a  picture  that  he  dropped  all  scruples.  "I'm  the 
most  envied  man  I  know  —  so  that  if  I  were  a  shade 
less  amiable  I  should  be  one  of  the  most  hated." 

Mr.  Longdon  laughed,  yet  not  quite  as  if  they  were 
joking.  "  I  see.  Your  pleasant  way  carries  it  off." 

Vanderbank  was,  however,  not  serious.  "  Would  n't 
it  carry  off  anything  ? " 

Again  his  friend,  through  the  pince-nez,  appeared  to 
crown  him  with  a  Whitehall  cornice.  "  I  think  I  ought 
to  let  you  know  I  'm  studying  you.  It's  really  fair  to 
tell  you,"  he  continued  with  an  earnestness  not  dis 
composed  by  the  indulgence  in  Vanderbank's  face. 
"  It 's  all  right  —  all  right ! "  he  reassuringly  added, 
having  meanwhile  stopped  before  a  photograph  sus 
pended  on  the  wall.  "That's  your  mother!"  he 
brought  out  with  something  of  the  elation  of  a  child 
making  a  discovery  or  guessing  a  riddle.  "I  don't 
make  you  out  in  her  yet  —  in  my  recollection  of  her, 
which,  as  I  told  you,  is  perfect;  but  I  dare  say  I  soon 
shall." 

Vanderbank  was  more  and  more  aware  that  the 
kind  of  amusement  he  excited  would  never  in  the  least 
be  a  bar  to  affection.  "  Please  take  all  your  time." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  at  his  watch  again.  "Do 
you  think  I  had  better  keep  it  ? " 

7 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"The  cab  ?"  Vanderbank  liked  him  so,  found  in 
him  such  a  promise  of  pleasant  things,  that  he  was 
almost  tempted  to  say:  "Dear  and  delightful  sir, 
don't  weigh  that  question;  I'll  pay,  myself,  for  the 
man's  whole  night!"  His  approval  at  all  events  was 
complete.  "  Most  certainly.  That's  the  only  way  not 
to  think  of  it." 

"Oh  you  young  men,  you  young  men!"  his  guest 
again  murmured.  He  had  passed  on  to  the  photo 
graph  —  Vanderbank  had  many,  too  many  photo 
graphs  —  of  some  other  relation,  and  stood  wiping 
the  gold-mounted  glasses  through  which  he  had  been 
darting  admirations  and  catching  side-lights  for 
shocks.  "Don't  talk  nonsense,"  he  continued  as  his 
friend  attempted  once  more  to  throw  in  a  protest ;  "  I 
belong  to  a  different  period  of  history.  There  have 
been  things  this  evening  that  have  made  me  feel  as  if 
I  had  been  disinterred  —  literally  dug  up  from  a  long 
sleep.  I  assure  you  there  have !"  —  he  really  pressed 
the  point. 

Vanderbank  wondered  a  moment  what  things  in 
particular  these  might  be;  he  found  himself  wanting 
to  get  at  everything  his  visitor  represented,  to  enter 
into  his  consciousness  and  feel,  as  it  were,  on  his  side. 
He  glanced  with  an  intention  freely  sarcastic  at  an 
easy  possibility.  "  The  extraordinary  vitality  of  Brook- 
enham  ? " 

Mr.  .Longdon,  with  nippers  in  place  again,  fixed  on 
him  a  gravity  that  failed  to  prevent  his  discovering 
in  the  eyes  behind  them  a  shy  reflexion  of  his  irony. 
"  Oh  Brookenham !  You  must  tell  me  all  about  Brook- 
enham." 

8 


LADY  JULIA 

"I  see  that's  not  what  you  mean." 

Mr.  Longdon  forbore  to  deny  it.  "  I  wonder  if  you  '11 
understand  what  I  mean."  Vanderbank  bristled  with 
the  wish  to  be  put  to  the  test,  but  was  checked  before 
he  could  say  so.  "And  what's  his  place  —  Brooken- 
ham's?" 

"Oh  Rivers  and  Lakes  —  an  awfully  good  thing. 
He  got  it  last  year." 

Mr.  Longdon  —  but  not  too  grossly  —  wondered. 
"How  did  he  get  it?" 

Vanderbank  laughed.    "Well,  she  got  it." 

His  friend  remained  grave.  "And  about  how  much 
now  —  ? " 

"Oh  twelve  hundred  —  and  lots  of  allowances  and 
boats  and  things.  To  do  the  work!"  Vanderbank, 
still  with  a  certain  levity,  added. 

"And  what  is  the  work  ?" 

The  young  man  had  a  pause.  "Ask  him.  He '11  like 
to  tell  you." 

"Yet  he  seemed  to  have  but  little  to  say."  Mr. 
Longdon  exactly  measured  it  again. 

"Ah  not  about  that.    Try  him." 

He  looked  more  sharply  at  his  host,  as  if  vaguely 
suspicious  of  a  trap;  then  not  less  vaguely  he  sighed. 
"Well,  it's  what  I  came  up  for  —  to  try  you  all.  But 
do  they  live  on  that?"  he  continued. 

Vanderbank  once  more  debated.  "One  does  n't 
quite  know  what  they  live  on.  But  they've  means 
—  for  it  was  just  that  fact,  I  remember,  that  showed 
Brookenham's  getting  the  place  was  n't  a  job.  It  was 
given,  I  mean,  not  to  his  mere  domestic  need,  but  to 
his  notorious  efficiency.  He  has  a  property  —  an  ugly 

9 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

little  place  in  Gloucestershire  —  which  they  some 
times  let.  His  elder  brother  has  the  better  one,  but 
they  make  up  an  income." 

Mr.  Longdon  for  an  instant  lost  himself.  "Yes,  I 
remember  —  one  heard  of  those  things  at  the  time. 
And  she  must  have  had  something." 

"Yes  indeed,  she  had  something  —  and  she  always 
has  her  intense  cleverness.  She  knows  thoroughly 
how.  They  do  it  tremendously  well." 

"Tremendously  well,"  Mr.  Longdon  intelligently 
echoed.  "  But  a  house  in  Buckingham  Crescent,  with 
the  way  they  seem  to  have  built  through  to  all  sorts 
of  other  places  —  ? " 

"Oh  they're  all  right,"  Vanderbank  soothingly 
dropped. 

"One  likes  to  feel  that  of  people  with  whom  one 
has  dined.  There  are  four  children  ?"  his  friend  went 
on. 

"The  older  boy,  whom  you  saw  and  who  in  his  way 
is  a  wonder,  the  older  girl,  whom  you  must  see,  and 
two  youngsters,  male  and  female,  whom  you  must  n't." 

There  might  by  this  time,  in  the  growing  interest  of 
their  talk,  have  been  almost  nothing  too  uncanny  for 
Mr.  Longdon  to  fear  it.  "You  mean  the  youngsters 
are  —  unfortunate  ?" 

"No  —  they're  only,  like  all  the  modern  young,  I 
think,  mysteries,  terrible  little  baffling  mysteries." 
Vanderbank  had  found  amusement  again  —  it  flick 
ered  so  from  his  friend's  face  that,  really  at  moments 
to  the  point  of  alarm,  his  explanations  deepened  dark 
ness.  Then  with  more  interest  he  harked  back.  "I 
know  the  thing  you  just  mentioned  —  the  thing  that 

10 


LADY  JULIA 

strikes  you  as  odd."  He  produced  his  knowledge 
quite  with  elation.  "The  talk."  Mr.  Longdon  on  this 
only  looked  at  him  in  silence  and  harder,  but  he  went 
on  with  assurance:  "Yes,  the  talk  —  for  we  do  talk, 
I  think."  Still  his  guest  left  him  without  relief, 
only  fixing  him  and  his  suggestion  with  a  suspended 
judgement.  Whatever  the  old  man  was  on  the  point 
of  saying,  however,  he  disposed  of  in  a  curtailed 
murmur;  he  had  already  turned  afresh  to  the  series 
of  portraits,  and  as  he  glanced  at  another  Vanderbank 
spoke  afresh.  "  It  was  very  interesting  to  me  to  hear 
from  you  there,  when  the  ladies  had  left  us,  how  many 
old  threads  you  were  prepared  to  pick  up." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  paused.  "I'm  an  old  boy  who 
remembers  the  mothers,"  he  at  last  replied. 

"Yes,  you  told  me  how  well  you  remember  Mrs. 
Brookenham's." 

"Oh,  oh!"  —  and  he  arrived  at  a  new  subject. 
"This  must  be  your  sister  Mary." 

"Yes;  it's  very  bad,  but  as  she's  dead — " 

"Dead?    Dear,  dear!" 

"Oh  long  ago"  —  Vanderbank  eased  him  off. 
"  It 's  delightful  of  you,"  this  informant  went  on,  "  to 
have  known  also  such  a  lot  of  my  people." 

Mr.  Longdon  turned  from  his  contemplation  with 
a  visible  effort.  "I  feel  obliged  to  you  for  taking  it 
so ;  it  might  n't  —  one  never  knows  —  have  amused 
you.  As  I  told  you  there,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
ask  Fernanda  about  the  company;  and  when  she 
mentioned  your  name  I  immediately  said:  'Would 
he  like  me  to  speak  to  him  ? ' ' 

''And  what  did  Fernanda  say?" 

ii 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mr.  Longdon  stared.  "  Do  you  call  her  Fernanda  ? " 

Vanderbank  felt  ever  so  much  more  guilty  than  he 
would  have  expected.  "You  think  it  too  much  in  the 
manner  we  just  mentioned  ? " 

His  friend  hesitated;  then  with  a  smile  a  trifle 
strange:  "Pardon  me;  /  didn't  mention — " 

"No,  you  did  n't;  and  your  scruple  was  magni 
ficent.  In  point  of  fact,"  Vanderbank  pursued,  "I 
don't  call  Mrs.  Brookenham  by  her  Christian  name." 

Mr.  Longdon's  clear  eyes  were  searching.  "Unless 
in  speaking  of  her  to  others  ? "  He  seemed  really  to 
wish  to  know. 

Vanderbank  was  but  too  ready  to  satisfy  him.  "I 
dare  say  we  seem  to  you  a  vulgar  lot  of  people.  That 's 
not  the  way,  I  can  see,  you  speak  of  ladies  at  Beccles." 

"Oh  if  you  laugh  at  me  —  ! "  And  his  visitor  turned 
off. 

"Don't  threaten  me,"  said  Vanderbank,  "or  I  will 
send  away  the  cab.  Of  course  I  know  what  you  mean. 
It  will  be  tremendously  interesting  to  hear  how  the 
sort  of  thing  we  've  fallen  into  —  oh  we  have  fallen 
in !  —  strikes  your  fresh,  your  uncorrupted  ear.  Do 
have  another  cigarette.  Sunk  as  I  must  appear  to 
you  it  sometimes  strikes  even  mine.  But  I  'm  not 
sure  as  regards  Mrs.  Brookenham,  whom  I  've  known 
a  long  time." 

Mr.  Longdon  again  took  him  up.  "What  do  you 
people  call  a  long  time  ?" 

Vanderbank  considered.  "Ah  there  you  are!  And 
now  we  're  *  we  people ' !  That 's  right  —  give  it  to  us. 
I'm  sure  that  in  one  way  or  another  it's  all  earned. 
Well,  I  've  known  her  ten  years.  But  awfully  well." 

12 


LADY  JULIA 

"  What  do  you  call  awfully  well  ? " 

"We  people?"  Vanderbank's  enquirer,  with  his 
continued  restless  observation,  moving  nearer,  the 
young  man  had  laid  on  his  shoulder  the  lightest  of 
friendly  hands.  "Don't  you  perhaps  ask  too  much  ? 
But  no,"  he  added  quickly  and  gaily,  "of  course  you 
don't:  if  I  don't  look  out  I  shall  have  exactly  the 
effect  on  you  I  don't  want.  I  dare  say  I  don't  know 
how  well  I  know  Mrs.  Brookenham.  Must  n't  that 
sort  of  thing  be  put  in  a  manner  to  the  proof? 
What  I  meant  to  say  just  now  was  that  I  would  n't 
—  at  least  I  hope  I  should  n't  —  have  named  her  as 
I  did  save  to  an  old  friend." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  promptly  satisfied  and  reas 
sured.  "You  probably  heard  me  address  her  myself." 

"I  did,  but  you've  your  rights,  and  that  would  n't 
excuse  me.  The  only  thing  is  that  I  go  to  see  her  every 
Sunday." 

Mr.  Longdon  pondered  and  then,  a  little  to  Van 
derbank's  surprise,  at  any  rate  to  his  deeper  amuse 
ment,  candidly  asked:  "Only  Fernanda  ?  No  other 
lady?" 

"Oh  yes,  several  other  ladies." 

Mr.  Longdon  appeared  to  hear  this  with  pleasure. 
"You're  quite  right.  We  don't  make  enough  of 
Sunday  at  Beccles." 

"Oh  we  make  plenty  of  it  in  London!"  Vander- 
bank  said.  "And  I  think  it's  rather  in  my  interest 
I  should  mention  that  Mrs.  Brookenham  calls  me  —  " 

His  visitor  covered  him  now  with  an  attention  that 
just  operated  as  a  check.  "  By  your  Christian  name  ? " 
Before  Vanderbank  could  in  any  degree  attenuate, 

13 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

"What  is  your  Christian  name?"  Mr.  Longdon 
asked. 

Vanderbank  felt  of  a  sudden  almost  guilty  —  as  if 
his  answer  could  only  impute  extravagance  to  the 
lady.  "My  Christian  name"  —  he  blushed  it  out  — 
"is  Gustavus." 

His  friend  took  a  droll  conscious  leap.  "And  she 
calls  you  Gussy  ? " 

"No,  not  even  Gussy.  But  I  scarcely  think  I  ought 
to  tell  you,"  he  pursued,  "  if  she  herself  gave  you  no 
glimpse  of  the  fact.  Any  implication  that  she  con 
sciously  avoided  it  might  make  you  see  deeper  depths." 

He  spoke  with  pointed  levity,  but  his  companion 
showed  him  after  an  instant  a  face  just  covered  — 
and  a  little  painfully  —  with  the  vision  of  the  possibil 
ity  brushed  away  by  the  joke.  "Oh  I  'm  not  so  bad  as 
that!"  Mr.  Longdon  modestly  ejaculated. 

"Well,  she  doesn't  do  it  always,"  Vanderbank 
laughed,  "and  it's  nothing  moreover  to  what  some 
people  are  called.  Why,  there  was  a  fellow  there  — " 
He  pulled  up,  however,  and,  thinking  better  of  it, 
selected  another  instance.  "The  Duchess  —  were  n't 
you  introduced  to  the  Duchess  ?  —  never  calls  me 
anything  but  'Vanderbank'  unless  she  calls  me  ' caro 
mio.'  It  would  n't  have  taken  much  to  make  her 
appeal  to  you  with  an  'I  say,  Longdon ! '  I  can  quite 
hear  her." 

Mr.  Longdon,  focussing  the  effect  of  the  sketch, 
pointed  its  moral  with  an  indulgent:  "Oh  well,  a 
foreign  duchess!"  He  could  make  his  distinctions. 

"Yes,  she's  invidiously,  cruelly  foreign,"  Vander 
bank  agreed :  "  I  've  never  indeed  seen  a  woman  avail 


LADY  JULIA 

herself  so  cleverly,  to  make  up  for  the  obloquy  of  that 
state,  of  the  benefits  and  immunities  it  brings  with  it. 
She  has  bloomed  in  the  hot-house  of  her  widowhood 
—  she 's  a  Neapolitan  hatched  by  an  incubator." 

"A  Neapolitan  ?" — Mr.  Longdon  seemed  all  civilly 
to  wish  he  had  only  known  it. 

"Her  husband  was  one;  but  I  believe  that  dukes  at 
Naples  are  as  thick  as  princes  at  Petersburg.  He's 
dead,  at  any  rate,  poor  man,  and  she  has  come  back 
here  to  live." 

"  Gloomily,  I  should  think  —  after  Naples  ? "  Mr. 
Longdon  threw  out. 

"Oh  it  would  take  more  than  even  a  Neapolitan 
past  —  !  However "  —  and  the  young  man  caught 
himself  up  —  "she  lives  not  in  what's  behind  her, 
but  in  what 's  before  —  she  lives  in  her  precious  little 
Aggie." 

"  Little  Aggie  ? "  Mr.  Longdon  risked  a  cautious 
interest. 

"I  don't  take  a  liberty  there,"  Vanderbank  smiled  : 
"  I  speak  only  of  the  young  Agnesina,  a  little  girl,  the 
Duchess's  niece,  or  rather  I  believe  her  husband's, 
whom  she  has  adopted  —  in  the  place  of  a  daughter 
early  lost  —  and  has  brought  to  England  to  marry." 

"Ah  to  some  great  man  of  course!" 

Vanderbank  thought.  "I  don't  know."  He  gave 
a  vague  but  expressive  sigh.  "She's  rather  lovely, 
little  Aggie." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  conspicuously  subtle.  "Then 
perhaps  you're  the  man —  !" 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  *  great '  one  ? "  Vanderbank  broke 
in. 

15 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

His  visitor,  turning  away  from  him,  again  embraced 
the  room.  "Oh  dear,  yes!" 

"Well  then,  to  show  how  right  you  are,  there's  the 
young  lady."  He  pointed  to  an  object  on  one  of  the 
tables,  a  small  photograph  with  a  very  wide  border 
of  something  that  looked  like  crimson  fur. 

Mr.  Longdon  took  up  the  picture;  he  was  serious 
now.  "  She 's  very  beautiful  —  but  she 's  not  a  little 
girl." 

"At  Naples  they  develop  early.  She's  only  seven 
teen  or  eighteen,  I  suppose ;  but  I  never  know  how 
old  — or  at  least  how  young  —  girls  are,  and  I  'm  not 
sure.  An  aunt,  at  any  rate,  has  of  course  nothing  to 
conceal.  She  is  extremely  pretty  —  with  extraordin 
ary  red  hair  and  a  complexion  to  match;  great  rarities 
I  believe,  in  that  race  and  latitude.  She  gave  me  the 
portrait  —  frame  and  all.  The  frame  is  Neapolitan 
enough  and  little  Aggie 's  charming."  Then  Vander- 
bank  subjoined:  "But  not  so  charming  as  little 
Nanda." 

"Little  Nanda?  —  have  you  got  her?"  The  old 
man  was  all  eagerness. 

"She's  over  there  beside  the  lamp  —  also  a  present 
from  the  original." 


II 


MR.  LONGDON  had  gone  to  the  place  —  little  Nanda 
was  in  glazed  white  wood.  He  took  her  up  and  held 
her  out;  for  a  moment  he  said  nothing,  but  presently, 
over  his  glasses,  rested  on  his  host  a  look  intenser  even 
than  his  scrutiny  of  the  faded  image.  "  Do  they  give 
their  portraits  now?" 

"Little  girls  —  innocent  lambs?  Surely  —  to  old 
friends.  Did  n't  they  in  your  time  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  studied  the  portrait  again;  after 
which,  with  an  exhalation  of  something  between 
superiority  and  regret,  "They  never  did  to  me,"  he 
returned. 

"Well,  you  can  have  all  you  want  now!"  Vander- 
bank  laughed. 

His  friend  gave  a  slow  droll  headshake.  "  I  don't 
want  them  'now*  !" 

"You  could  do  with  them,  my  dear  sir,  still," 
Vanderbank  continued  in  the  same  manner,  "every 
bit /do!" 

"  I  'm  sure  you  do  nothing  you  ought  n't."  Mr. 
Longdon  kept  the  photograph  and  continued  to  look 
at  it.  "  Her  mother  told  me  about  her  —  promised  me 
I  should  see  her  next  time." 

"You  must  —  she's  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

Mr.  Longdon  was  really  deep  in  it.  "  Is  she  clever  ? " 

Vanderbank  turned  it  over.  "Well,  you'll  tell  me 
if  you  think  so." 

17 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Ah  with  a  child  of  seventeen  —  !"  Mr.  Longdon 
murmured  it  as  if  in  dread  of  having  to  pronounce. 
"This  one  too  is  seventeen  ?" 

Vanderbank  again  considered.  "Eighteen."  He 
just  hung  fire  once  more,  then  brought  out:  "Well, 
call  it  nearly  nineteen.  I  've  kept  her  birthdays,"  he 
laughed. 

His  companion  caught  at  the  idea.  "Upon  my 
honour  7  should  like  to  !  When  is  the  next  ? " 

"You've  plenty  of  time  —  the  fifteenth  of  June." 

"I'm  only  too  sorry  to  wait."  Laying  down  the 
object  he  had  been  examining  Mr.  Longdon  took 
another  turn  about  the  room,  and  his  manner  was  such 
an  appeal  to  his  host  to  accept  his  restlessness  that 
as  he  circulated  the  latter  watched  him  with  encour 
agement.  "I  said  to  you  just  now  that  I  knew  the 
mothers,  but  it  would  have  been  more  to  the  point 
to  say  the  grandmothers."  He  stopped  before  his 
young  friend,  then  nodded  at  the  image  of  Nanda. 
"I  knew  hers.  She  put  it  at  something  less." 

Vanderbank  rather  failed  to  understand.  "The 
old  lady?  Put  what?" 

Mr.  Longdon's  face  showed  him  as  for  a  moment 
feeling  his  way.  "  I  'm  speaking  of  Mrs.  Brookenham. 
She  spoke  of  her  daughter  as  only  sixteen." 

Vanderbank's  amusement  at  the  tone  of  this  broke 
out.  "She  usually  does!  She  has  done  so,  I  think, 
for  the  last  year  or  two." 

His  visitor  dropped  upon  his  sofa  as  with  the 
weight  of  something  sudden  and  fresh;  then  from 
this  place,  with  a  sharp  little  movement,  tossed  into 
the  fire  the  end  of  a  cigarette.  Vanderbank  offered 

18 


LADY  JULIA 

him  another,  and  as  he  accepted  it  and  took  a  light 
he  said :  "  I  don't  know  what  you  're  doing  with  me  — 
I  never  at  home  smoke  so  much ! "  But  he  puffed 
away  and,  seated  near,  laid  his  hand  on  Vanderbank's 
arm  as  to  help  himself  to  utter  something  too  delicate 
not  to  be  guarded  and  yet  too  important  not  to  be 
risked.  "Now  that's  the  sort  of  thing  I  did  mean 
—  as  one  of  my  impressions."  Vanderbank  continued 
at  a  loss  and  he  went  on :  "I  refer  —  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so  —  to  what  you  said  just  now." 

Vanderbank  was  conscious  of  a  deep  desire  to  draw 
from  him  whatever  might  come;  so  sensible  was  it 
somehow  that  whatever  in  him  was  good  was  also 
thoroughly  personal.  But  our  young  friend  had  to 
think  a  minute.  "I  see,  I  see.  Nothing's  more  prob 
able  than  that  I've  said  something  nasty;  but  which 
of  my  particular  horrors  ? " 

"Well  then,  your  conveying  that  she  makes  her 
daughter  out  younger  —  ! " 

"To  make  herself  out  the  same?"  Vanderbank 
took  him  straight  up.  "It  was  nasty  my  doing  that  ? 
I  see,  I  see.  Yes,  yes:  I  rather  gave  her  away,  and 
you  're  struck  by  it  —  as  is  most  delightful  you  should 
be  —  because  you  're  in  every  way  of  a  better  tradition 
and,  knowing  Mrs.  Brookenham's  my  friend,  can't 
conceive  of  one's  playing  on  a  friend  a  trick  so  vulgar 
and  odious.  It  strikes  you  also  probably  as  the  kind 
of  thing  we  must  be  constantly  doing;  it  strikes  you 
that  right  and  left,  probably,  we  keep  giving  each 
other  away.  Well,  I  dare  say  we  do.  Yes,  'come  to 
think  of  it,'  as  they  say  in  America,  we  do.  But  what 
shall  I  tell  you  ?  Practically  we  all  know  it  and  allow 

'9 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

for  it  and  it's  as  broad  as  it's  long.  What's  London 
life  after  all  ?  It 's  tit  for  tat ! " 

"Ah  but  what  becomes  of  friendship  ?"  Mr.  Long- 
don  earnestly  and  pleadingly  asked,  while  he  still 
held  Vanderbank's  arm  as  if  under  the  spell  of  the 
vivid  explanation  supplied  him. 

The  young  man  met  his  eyes  only  the  more  sociably. 
"Friendship?" 

"Friendship."  Mr.  Longdon  maintained  the  full 
value  of  the  word. 

"Well,"  his  companion  risked,  "I  dare  say  it  is  n't 
in  London  by  any  means  what  it  is  at  Beccles.  I  quite 
literally  mean  that,"  Vanderbank  reassuringly  added; 
"  I  never  really  have  believed  in  the  existence  of  friend 
ship  in  big  societies  —  in  great  towns  and  great 
crowds.  It's  a  plant  that  takes  time  and  space  and 
air;  and  London  society  is  a  huge  'squash,'  as  we 
elegantly  call  it  —  an  elbowing  pushing  perspiring 
chattering  mob." 

"Ah  I  don't  say  that  of  you!"  the  visitor  mur 
mured  with  a  withdrawal  of  his  hand  and  a  visible 
scruple  for  the  sweeping  concession  he  had  evoked. 

"Do  say  it  then  —  for  God's  sake  ;  let  some  one 
say  it,  so  that  something  or  other,  whatever  it  may 
be,  may  come  of  it!  It's  impossible  to  say  too  much 
—  it's  impossible  to  say  enough.  There  isn't  any 
thing  any  one  can  say  that  I  won't  agree  to." 

"That  shows  you  really  don't  care,"  the  old  man 
returned  with  acuteness. 

"Oh  we're  past  saving,  if  that's  what  you  mean !" 
Vanderbank  laughed. 

"You  don't  care,  you  don't  care!"  his  guest  re- 
20 


LADY  JULIA 

peated,   "  and  —  if  I   may  be  frank  with  you  —  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  it  were  rather  a  pity." 

"A  pity  I  don't  care?" 

"You  ought  to,  you  ought  to."  And  Mr.  Longdon 
paused.  "May  I  say  all  I  think?" 

"  I  assure  you  /  shall !  You  're  awfully  interesting." 

"  So  are  you,  if  you  come  to  that.  It 's  just  what  I  've 
had  in  my  head.  There's  something  I  seem  to  make 
out  in  you  —  ! "  He  abruptly  dropped  this,  however, 
going  on  in  another  way.  "  I  remember  the  rest  of  you, 
but  why  did  I  never  see  you?" 

"  I  must  have  been  at  school  —  at  college.  Perhaps 
you  did  know  my  brothers,  elder  and  younger." 

"There  was  a  boy  with  your  mother  at  Malvern. 
I  was  near  her  there  for  three  months  in  —  what  was 
the  year  ? " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Vanderbank  replied  while  his  guest 
tried  to  fix  the  date.  "It  was  my  brother  Miles.  He 
was  awfully  clever,  but  had  no  health,  poor  chap,  and 
we  lost  him  at  seventeen.  She  used  to  take  houses  at 
such  places  with  him  —  it  was  supposed  to  be  for  his 
benefit." 

Mr.  Longdon  listened  with  a  visible  recovery.  "  He 
used  to  talk  to  me  —  I  remember  he  asked  me  ques 
tions  I  could  n't  answer  and  made  me  dreadfully 
ashamed.  But  I  lent  him  books  —  partly,  upon  my 
honour,  to  make  him  think  that  as  I  had  them  I  did 
know  something.  He  read  everything  and  had  a  lot 
to  say  about  it.  I  used  to  tell  your  mother  he  had  a 
great  future." 

Vanderbank  shook  his  head  sadly  and  kindly.  "So 
he  had.  And  you  remember  Nancy,  who  was  hand- 

21 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

some  and  who  was  usually  with  them?"  he  went 
on. 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  so  uncertain  that  he  explained 
he  meant  his  other  sister;  on  which  his  companion 
said:  "Oh  her?  Yes,  she  was  charming  —  she  evi 
dently  had  a  future  too." 

"Well,  she's  in  the  midst  of  her  future  now.  She's 
married." 

"And  whom  did  she  marry?" 

"A  fellow  called  Toovey.    A  man  in  the  City." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Longdon  a  little  blankly.  Then 
as  if  to  retrieve  his  blankness :  "  But  why  do  you  call 
her  Nancy  ?  Was  n't  her  name  Blanche  ?" 

"Exactly  —  Blanche  Bertha  Vanderbank." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  half-mystified  and  half-dis 
tressed.  "And  now  she's  Nancy  Toovey?" 

Vanderbank  broke  into  laughter  at  his  dismay. 
"That's  what  every  one  calls  her." 

"But  why?" 

"Nobody  knows.  You  see  you  were  right  about 
her  future." 

Mr.  Longdon  gave  another  of  his  soft  smothered 
sighs;  he  had  turned  back  again  to  the  first  photo 
graph,  which  he  looked  at  for  a  longer  time.  "Well, 
it  was  n't  her  way." 

"My  mother's?  No  indeed.  Oh  my  mother's 
way  —  ! "  Vanderbank  waited,  then  added  gravely : 
"She  was  taken  in  time." 

Mr.  Longdon  turned  half-round  as  to  reply  to 
this,  but  instead  of  replying  proceeded  afresh  to  an 
examination  of  the  expressive  oval  in  the  red 
plush  frame.  He  took  up  little  Aggie,  who  appeared 

22 


LADY  JULIA 

to-  interest   him,   and   abruptly  observed:   "Nanda 
is  n't  so  pretty." 

"No,  not  nearly.  There's  a  great  question  whether 
Nanda 's  pretty  at  all." 

Mr.  Longdon  continued  to  inspect  her  more  favoured 
friend ;  which  led  him  after  a  moment  to  bring  out : 
"  She  ought  to  be,  you  know.  Her  grandmother  was." 

"Oh  and  her  mother,"  Vanderbank  threw  in. 
"  Don't  you  think  Mrs.  Brookenham  lovely  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  kept  him  waiting  a  little.  "Not 
so  lovely  as  Lady  Julia.  Lady  Julia  had  —  ! "  He 
faltered;  then,  as  if  there  were  too  much  to  say, 
disposed  of  the  question.  "Lady  Julia  had  every 
thing." 

Vanderbank  gathered  hence  an  impression  that 
determined  him  more  and  more  to  diplomacy.  "  But 
is  n't  that  just  what  Mrs.  Brookenham  has  ?" 

This  time  the  old  man  was  prompt.  "Yes,  she's 
very  brilliant,  but  it's  a  totally  different  thing."  He 
laid  little  Aggie  down  and  moved  away  as  without 
a  purpose ;  but  his  friend  presently  perceived  his  pur 
pose  to  be  another  glance  at  the  other  young  lady. 
As  if  all  accidentally  and  absently  he  bent  again  over 
the  portrait  of  Nanda.  "Lady  Julia  was  exquisite 
and  this  child's  exactly  like  her." 

Vanderbank,  more  and  more  conscious  of  some 
thing  working  in  him,  was  more  and  more  interested. 
"If  Nanda 's  so  like  her,  was  she  so  exquisite  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  every  one  was  agreed  about  that."  Mr. 
Longdon  kept  his  eyes  on  the  face,  trying  a  little, 
Vanderbank  even  thought,  to  conceal  his  own.  "  She 
was  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  her  day." 

23 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Then  is  Nanda  so  like  her?"  Vanderbank  per 
sisted,  amused  at  his  friend's  transparency. 

"Extraordinarily.  Her  mother  told  me  all  about 
her." 

"Told  you  she's  as  beautiful  as  her  grandmother  ?" 

Mr.  Longdon  turned  it  over.  "Well,  that  she  has 
just  Lady  Julia's  expression.  She  absolutely  has  it  — 
I  see  it  here."  He  was  delightfully  positive.  "She's 
much  more  like  the  dead  than  like  the  living." 

Vanderbank  saw  in  this  too  many  deep  things  not 
to  follow  them  up.  One  of  these  was,  to  begin  with, 
that  his  guest  had  not  more  than  half-succumbed  to 
Mrs.  Brookenham's  attraction,  if  indeed  he  had  by 
a  fine  originality  not  resisted  it  altogether.  That  in 
itself,  for  an  observer  deeply  versed  in  this  lady, 
was  attaching  and  beguiling.  Another  indication  was 
that  he  found  himself,  in  spite  of  such  a  break  in  the 
chain,  distinctly  predisposed  to  Nanda.  "  If  she  repro 
duces  then  so  vividly  Lady  Julia,"  the  young  man 
threw  out,  "why  does  she  strike  you  as  so  much  less 
pretty  than  her  foreign  friend  there,  who  is  after  all 
by  no  means  a  prodigy  ?" 

The  subject  of  this  address,  with  one  of  the  photo 
graphs  in  his  hand,  glanced,  while  he  reflected,  at  the 
other.  Then  with  a  subtlety  that  matched  itself  for 
the  moment  with  Vanderbank's:  "You  just  told  me 
yourself  that  the  little  foreign  person  —  ' 

"Is  ever  so  much  the  lovelier  of  the  two  ?  So  I  did. 
But  you've  promptly  recognised  it.  It's  the  first 
time,"  Vanderbank  went  on,  to  let  him  down  more 
gently,  "that  I 've  heard  Mrs.  Brookenham  admit  the 
girl's  good  looks." 

24 


LADY  JULIA 

"Her  own  girl's  ?    ' Admit'  them  ?" 

"I  mean  grant  them  to  be  even  as  good  as  they  are. 
I  myself,  I  must  tell  you,  extremely  like  Nanda's 
appearance.  I  think  Lady  Julia's  granddaughter  has 
in  her  face,  in  spite  of  everything  —  ! " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  everything  ?"  Mr.  Longdon 
broke  in  with  such  an  approach  to  resentment  that  his 
host's  gaiety  overflowed. 

"You'll  see  —  when  you  do  see.  She  has  no  fea 
tures.  No,  not  one,"  Vanderbank  inexorably  pur 
sued;  "unless  indeed  you  put  it  that  she  has  two  or 
three  too  many.  What  I  was  going  to  say  was  that 
she  has  in  her  expression  all  that's  charming  in  her 
nature.  But  beauty,  in  London"  —  and  feeling  that 
he  held  his  visitor's  attention  he  gave  himself  the 
pleasure  of  freely  presenting  his  idea  —  "  staring 
glaring  obvious  knock-down  beauty,  as  plain  as  a 
poster  on  a  wall,  an  advertisement  of  soap  or  whiskey, 
something  that  speaks  to  the  crowd  and  crosses  the 
footlights,  fetches  such  a  price  in  the  market  that  the 
absence  of  it,  for  a  woman  with  a  girl  to  marry,  in 
spires  endless  terrors  and  constitutes  for  the  wretched 
pair  (to  speak  of  mother  and  daughter  alone)  a  sort 
of  social  bankruptcy.  London  does  n't  love  the 
latent  or  the  lurking,  has  neither  time  nor  taste  nor 
sense  for  anything  less  discernible  than  the  red  flag 
in  front  of  the  steam-roller.  It  wants  cash  over  the 
counter  and  letters  ten  feet  high.  Therefore  you  see 
it's  all  as  yet  rather  a  dark  question  for  poor  Nanda 
—  a  question  that  in  a  way  quite  occupies  the  fore 
ground  of  her  mother's  earnest  little  life.  How  will 
she  look,  what  will  be  thought  of  her  and  what  will 

25 


she  be  able  to  do  for  herself  ?  She 's  at  the  age  when 
the  whole  thing  —  speaking  of  her  '  attractions,'  her 
possible  share  of  good  looks  —  is  still  to  a  degree  in 
a  fog.  But  everything  depends  on  it." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  by  this  time  come  back  to  him. 
"  Excuse  my  asking  it  again  —  for  you  take  such 
jumps  :  what,  once  more,  do  you  mean  by  every 
thing?" 

"Why  naturally  her  marrying.  Above  all  her  marry 
ing  early." 

Mr.  Longdon  stood  before  the  sofa.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  early  ?" 

"Well,  we  do  doubtless  get  up  later  than  at  Beccles; 
but  that  gives  us,  you  see,  shorter  days.  I  mean  in 
a  couple  of  seasons.  Soon  enough,"  Vanderbank  de 
veloped,  "  to  limit  the  strain  —  ! "  He  was  moved  to 
higher  gaiety  by  his  friend's  expression. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  strain  ?" 

"Well,  the  complication  of  her  being  there." 

"  Being  where  ? " 

"You  do  put  one  through!"  Vanderbank  laughed. 
But  he  showed  himself  perfectly  prepared.  "Out  of 
the  school-room  and  where  she  is  now.  In  her 
mother's  drawing-room.  At  her  mother's  fireside." 

Mr.  Longdon  stared.  "  But  where  else  should  she 
be?" 

"At  her  husband's,  don't  you  see  ?" 

He  looked  as  if  he  quite  saw,  yet  was  nevertheless 
not  to  be  put  off  from  his  original  challenge.  "Ah 
certainly;  but  not  as  if  she  had  been  pushed  down 
the  chimney.  All  in  good  time." 

"What  do  you  call  good  time  ?" 
26 


LADY  JULIA 

"  Why  time  to  make  herself  loved." 

Vanderbank  wondered.  "  By  the  men  who  come  to 
the  house  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  slightly  attenuated  this  way  of  putting 
it.  "Yes  —  and  in  the  home  circle.  Where's  the 
'  strain '  —  of  her  being  suffered  to  be  a  member  of 
it?" 


Ill 


VANDERBANK  at  this  left  his  corner  of  the  sofa  and, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  manner  so  amused 
that  it  might  have  passed  for  excited,  took  several 
paces  about  the  room  while  his  interlocutor,  watching 
him,  waited  for  his  response.  That  gentleman,  as  this 
response  for  a  minute  hung  fire,  took  his  turn  at  sitting 
down,  and  then  Vanderbank  stopped  before  him  with 
a  face  in  which  something  had  been  still  more  brightly 
kindled.  "You  ask  me  more  things  than  I  can  tell 
you.  You  ask  me  more  than  I  think  you  suspect. 
You  must  come  and  see  me  again  —  you  must  let 
me  come  and  see  you.  You  raise  the  most  interesting 
questions  and  we  must  sooner  or  later  have  them  all 
out." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  happy  in  such  a  prospect,  but 
once  more  took  out  his  watch.  "  It  wants  five  minutes 
to  midnight.  Which  means  that  I  must  go  now." 

"Not  in  the  least.  There  are  satisfactions  you  too 
must  give."  His  host,  with  an  irresistible  hand, 
confirmed  him  in  his  position  and  pressed  upon  him 
another  cigarette.  His  resistance  rang  hollow — it  was 
clearly,  he  judged,  such  an  occasion  for  sacrifices. 
Vanderbank's  view  of  it  meanwhile  was  quite  as 
marked.  "You  see  there's  ever  so  much  more  you 
must  in  common  kindness  tell  me." 

Mr.  Longdon  sat  there  like  a  shy  singer  invited 
to  strike  up.  "I  told  you  everything  at  Mrs. 

28 


LADY  JULIA 

Brookenham's.  It  comes  over  me  now  how  I  dropped 
on  you." 

"What  you  told  me,"  Vanderbank  returned,  "was 
excellent  so  far  as  it  went;  but  it  was  only  after  all 
that,  having  caught  my  name,  you  had  asked  of  our 
friend  if  I  belonged  to  people  you  had  known  years 
before,  and  then,  from  what  she  had  said,  had  — 
with  what  you  were  so  good  as  to  call  great  pleas 
ure  —  made  out  that  I  did.  You  came  round  to  me 
on  this,  after  dinner,  and  gave  me  a  pleasure  still 
greater.  But  that  only  takes  us  part  of  the  way."  Mr. 
Longdon  said  nothing,  but  there  was  something  ap 
preciative  in  his  conscious  lapses ;  they  were  a  tribute 
to  his  young  friend's  frequent  felicity.  This  personage 
indeed  appeared  more  and  more  to  take  them  for 
that  —  which  was  not  without  its  effect  on  his  spirits. 
At  last,  with  a  flight  of  some  freedom,  he  brought  their 
pause  to  a  close.  "You  loved  Lady  Julia."  Then  as 
the  attitude  of  his  guest,  who  serenely  met  his  eyes, 
was  practically  a  contribution  to  the  subject,  he  went 
on  with  a  feeling  that  he  had  positively  pleased. 
"You  lost  her  —  and  you're  unmarried." 

Mr.  Longdon's  smile  was  beautiful  —  it  supplied 
so  many  meanings  that  when  presently  he  spoke  he 
seemed  already  to  have  told  half  his  story.  "Well, 
my  life  took  a  form.  It  had  to,  or  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  become  of  me,  and  several  things  that  all 
happened  at  once  helped  me  out.  My  father  died  — 
I  came  into  the  little  place  in  Suffolk.  My  sister,  my 
only  one,  who  had  married  and  was  older  than  I,  lost 
within  a  year  or  two  both  her  husband  and  her  little 
boy.  I  offered  her,  in  the  country,  a  home,  for  her 

29 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

trouble  was  greater  than  any  trouble  of  mine.  She 
came,  she  stayed;  it  went  on  and  on  and  we  lived 
there  together.  We  were  sorry  for  each  other  and  it 
somehow  suited  us.  But  she  died  two  years  ago." 

Vanderbank  took  all  this  in,  only  wishing  to  show 
—  wishing  by  this  time  quite  tenderly  —  that  he  even 
read  into  it  deeply  enough  all  the  unsaid.  He  filled 
out  another  of  his  friend's  gaps.  "  And  here  you  are." 
Then  he  invited  Mr.  Longdon  himself  to  make  the 
stride.  "Well,  you'll  be  a  great  success." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Why,  that  we  shall  be  so  infatuated  with  you  that 
we  shall  make  your  life  a  burden  to  you.  You'll  see 
soon  enough  what  I  mean  by  it." 

"Possibly,"  the  old  man  said;  "to  understand 
you  I  shall  have  to.  You  speak  of  something  that 
as  yet  —  with  my  race  practically  run  —  I  know 
nothing  about.  I  was  no  success  as  a  young  man. 
I  mean  of  the  sort  that  would  have  made  most  differ 
ence.  People  would  n't  look  at  me." 

"Well,  we  shall  look  at  you,"  Vanderbank  declared. 
Then  he  added:  "What  people  do  you  mean  ?"  And 
before  his  friend  could  reply:  "Lady  Julia?" 

Mr.  Longdon's  assent  was  mute.  "Ah  she  was  not 
the  worst!  I  mean  that  what  made  it  so  bad,"  he 
continued,  "was  that  they  all  really  liked  me.  Your 
mother,  I  think  —  as  to  that,  the  dreadful  consolatory 
'liking*  —  even  more  than  the  others." 

"My  mother?" — Vanderbank  was  surprised. 
"  You  mean  there  was  a  question  —  ? " 

"Oh  for  but  half  a  minute!  It  didn't  take  her 
long.  It  was  five  years  after  your  father's  death." 

3° 


LADY  JULIA 

This  explanation  was  very  delicately  made.  "She 
could  marry  again." 

"And  I  suppose  you  know  she  did,"  Vanderbank 
returned. 

"I  knew  it  soon  enough!"  With  this,  abruptly, 
Mr.  Longdon  pulled  himself  forward.  "Good-night, 
good-night." 

"Good-night,"  said  Vanderbank.  "But  wasn't 
that  after  Lady  Julia  ? " 

On  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  his  hands  supporting  him, 
Mr.  Longdon  looked  straight.  "There  was  nothing 
after  Lady  Julia." 

"I  see."  His  companion  smiled.  "My  mother  was 
earlier." 

"She  was  extremely  good  to  me.  I  'm  not  speaking 
of  that  time  at  Malvern  —  that  came  later." 

"Precisely  —  I  understand.  You're  speaking  of  the 
first  years  of  her  widowhood." 

Mr.  Longdon  just  faltered.  "I  should  call  them 
rather  the  last.  Six  months  later  came  her  second 
marriage." 

Vanderbank's  interest  visibly  improved.  "Ah  it 
was  the n  ?  That  was  about  my  seventh  year."  He 
called  things  back  and  pieced  them  together.  "But 
she  must  have  been  older  than  you." 

"Yes  —  a  little.  She  was  kindness  itself  to  me  at  all 
events,  then  and  afterwards.  That  was  the  charm  of 
the  weeks  at  Malvern." 

"I  see,"  the  young  man  laughed.  "The  charm  was 
that  you  had  recovered." 

"Oh  dear,  no!"  Mr.  Longdon,  rather  to  his  mysti 
fication,  exclaimed.  "I'm  afraid  I  had  n't  recovered 

31 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

at  all  —  had  n't,  if  that's  what  you  mean,  got  over 
my  misery  and  my  melancholy.    She  knew  I  had  n't 

—  and  that  was  what  was  nice  of  her.     She  was  a 
person  with  whom  I  could  talk  about  her.'* 

Vanderbank  took  a  moment  to  clear  up  the  am 
biguity.  "Oh  you  mean  you  could  talk  about  the 
other.  You  had  n't  got  over  Lady  Julia." 

Mr.  Longdon  sadly  smiled  at  him.  "I  have  n't  got 
over  her  yet ! "  Then,  however,  as  if  not  to  look  mor 
bid,  he  took  pains  to  be  clear.  "The  first  wound  was 
bad  —  but  from  that  one  always  comes  round.  Your 
mother,  dear  woman,  had  known  how  to  help  me. 
Lady  Julia  was  at  that  time  her  intimate  friend  —  it 
was  she  who  introduced  me  there.  She  could  n't  help 
what  happened  —  she  did  her  best.  What  I  meant 
just  now  was  that  in  the  aftertime,  when  opportunity 
occurred,  she  was  the  one  person  with  whom  I  could 
always  talk  and  who  always  understood."  He  lost 
himself  an  instant  in  the  deep  memories  to  attest 
which  he  had  survived  alone;  then  he  sighed  out  as 
if  the  taste  of  it  all  came  back  to  him  with  a  faint 
sweetness:  "I  think  they  must  both  have  been  good 
to  me.  At  the  Malvern  time,  the  particular  time  I 
just  mentioned  to  you,  Lady  Julia  was  already  mar 
ried,  and  during  those  first  years  she  had  been  whirled 
out  of  my  ken.  Then  her  own  life  took  a  quieter 
turn ;  we  met  again ;  I  went  for  a  good  while  often  to 
her  house.  I  think  she  rather  liked  the  state  to  which 
she  had  reduced  me,  though  she  did  n't,  you  know, 
in  the  least  presume  on  it.  The  better  a  woman  is 

—  it  has  often  struck  me  —  the  more  she  enjoys  in 
a  quiet  way  some  fellow's  having  been  rather  bad, 

32 


LADY  JULIA 

rather  dark  and  desperate,  about  her  —  for  her.  I 
dare  say,  I  mean,  that  though  Lady  Julia  insisted 
I  ought  to  marry  she  would  n't  really  have  liked  it 
much  if  I  had.  At  any  rate  it  was  in  those  years  I  saw 
her  daughter  just  cease  to  be  a  child  —  the  little  girl 
who  was  to  be  transformed  by  time  into  the  so  different 
person  with  whom  we  dined  to-night.  That  comes 
back  to  me  when  I  hear  you  speak  of  the  growing  up, 
in  turn,  of  that  person's  own  daughter." 

"I  follow  you  with  a  sympathy  — !"  Vanderbank 
replied.  "The  situation's  reproduced." 

"Ah  partly  —  not  altogether.  The  things  that  are 
unlike  —  well,  are  so  very  unlike."  Mr.  Longdon  for 
a  moment,  on  this,  fixed  his  companion  with  eyes  that 
betrayed  one  of  the  restless  little  jumps  of  his  mind. 
"I  told  you  just  now  that  there's  something  I  seem 
to  make  out  in  you." 

"Yes,  that  was  meant  for  better  things  ?" — Van 
derbank  frankly  took  him  up.  "There  is  something, 
I  really  believe  —  meant  for  ever  so  much  better 
ones.  Those  are  just  the  sort  I  like  to  be  supposed 
to  have  a  real  affinity  with.  Help  me  to  them,  Mr. 
Longdon ;  help  me  to  them,  and  I  don't  know  what 
I  won't  do  for  you  ! " 

"Then  after  all"  —  and  his  friend  made  the  point 
with  innocent  sharpness  —  "you're  not  past  sav- 
ing!" 

"Well,  I  individually  —  how  shall  I  put  it  to  you  ? 
If  I  tell  you,"  Vanderbank  went  on,  "that  I've  that 
sort  of  fulcrum  for  salvation  which  consists  at  least 
in  a  deep  consciousness  and  the  absence  of  a  rag  of 
illusion,  I  shall  appear  to  say  I'm  wholly  different 

33 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

from  the  world  I  live  in  and  to  that  extent  present 
myself  as  superior  and  fatuous.  Try  me  at  any  rate. 
Let  me  try  myself.  Don't  abandon  me.  See  what 
can  be  done  with  me.  Perhaps  I  'm  after  all  a  case. 
I  shall  certainly  cling  to  you." 

"You're  too  clever  —  you're  too  clever:  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you  all!"  Mr.  Longdon 
sighed. 

"With  us  all?"  Vanderbank  echoed.  "Dear  Mr. 
Longdon,  it's  the  first  time  I've  heard  it.  If  you 
should  say  the  matter  with  me  in  particular,  why 
there  might  be  something  in  it.  What  you  mean 
at  any  rate  —  I  see  where  you  come  out  —  is  that 
we're  coJd  and  sarcastic  and  cynical,  without  the 
soft  human  spot.  I  think  you  flatter  us  even  while 
you  attempt  to  warn;  but  what's  extremely  interest 
ing  at  all  events  is  that,  as  I  gather,  we  made  on  you 
this  evening,  in  a  particular  way,  a  collective  impres 
sion  —  something  in  which  our  trifling  varieties  are 
merged."  His  visitor's  face,  at  this,  appeared  to 
acknowledge  his  putting  the  case  in  perfection,  so 
that  he  was  encouraged  to  go  on.  "There  was  some 
thing  particular  with  which  you  were  n't  altogether 
pleasantly  struck." 

Mr.  Longdon,  who  decidedly  changed  colour  easily, 
showed  in  his  clear  cheek  the  effect  at  once  of  feeling 
a  finger  on  his  fault  and  of  admiring  his  companion's 
insight.  But  he  accepted  the  situation.  "I  could  n't 
help  noticing  your  tone." 

"  Do  you  mean  its  being  so  low  ? " 

He  had  smiled  at  first  but  looked  grave  now.  "Do 
you  really  want  to  know  ?" 

34 


LADY  JULIA 

"Just  how  you  were  affected  ?  I  assure  you  there's 
at  this  moment  nothing  I  desire  nearly  so  much." 

"I'm  no  judge  then,"  Mr.  Longdon  began;  "I'm 
no  critic;  I'm  no  talker  myself.  I'm  old-fashioned 
and  narrow  and  ignorant.  I've  lived  for  years  in 
a  hole.  I  'm  not  a  man  of  the  world." 

Vanderbank  considered  him  with  a  benevolence,  a 
geniality  of  approval,  that  he  literally  had  to  hold  in 
check  for  fear  of  seeming  to  patronise.  "There  's  not 
one  of  us  who  can  touch  you.  You're  delightful, 
you  're  wonderful,  and  I  'm  intensely  curious  to  hear 
you,"  the  young  man  pursued.  "Were  we  absolutely 
odious?"  Before  his  guest's  puzzled,  finally  almost 
pained  face,  such  an  air  of  appreciating  so  much 
candour,  yet  of  looking  askance  at  so  much  freedom, 
he  could  only  try  to  smooth  the  way  and  light  the  sub 
ject.  "You  see  we  don't  in  the  least  know  where  we 
are.  We're  lost  —  and  you  find  us."  Mr.  Longdon, 
as  he  spoke,  had  prepared  at  last  really  to  go,  reach 
ing  the  door  with  a  manner  that  denoted,  however, 
by  no  means  so  much  satiety  as  an  attention  that 
felt  itself  positively  too  agitated.  Vanderbank  had 
helped  him  on  with  the  Inverness  cape  and  for  an  in 
stant  detained  him  by  it.  "Just  tell  me  as  a  kindness. 
Do  we  talk  — " 

"Too  freely  ?"  Mr.  Longdon,  with  his  clear  eyes  so 
untouched  by  time,  speculatively  murmured. 

"Too  outrageously.    I  want  the  truth." 

The  truth  evidently  for  Mr.  Longdon  was  difficult 
to  tell.  "Well  —  it  was  certainly  different." 

"From  you  and  Lady  Julia  ?  I  see.  Well,  of  course 
with  time  some  change  is  natural,  is  n't  it  ?  But  so 

35 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

different,"  Vanderbank  pressed,  "  that  you  were  really 
shocked  ? " 

His  visitor  smiled  at  this,  but  the  smile  romehow 
made  the  face  graver.  "I  think  I  was  rather  fright 
ened.  Good-night." 


BOOK  SECOND 
LITTLE  AGGIE 


MRS.  BROOKENHAM  stopped  on  the  threshold  with  the 
sharp  surprise  of  the  sight  of  her  son,  and  there  was 
disappointment,  though  rather  of  the  afflicted  than 
of  the  irritated  sort,  in  the  question  that,  slowly 
advancing,  she  launched  at  him.  "If  you're  still 
lolling  about  why  did  you  tell  me  two  hours  ago  that 
you  were  leaving  immediately  ? " 

Deep  in  a  large  brocaded  chair  with  his  little  legs 
stuck  out  to  the  fire,  he  was  so  much  at  his  ease  that 
he  was  almost  flat  on  his  back.  She  had  evidently 
roused  him  from  sleep,  and  it  took  him  a  couple  of 
minutes  —  during  which,  without  again  looking  at 
him,  she  directly  approached  a  beautiful  old  French 
secretary,  a  fine  piece  of  the  period  of  Louis  Seize 
—  to  justify  his  presence.  "I  changed  my  mind. 
I  could  n't  get  off." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  're  not  going  ? " 

"Well,  I'm  thinking  it  over.  What's  a  fellow 
to  do?"  He  sat  up  a  little,  staring  with  conscious 
solemnity  at  the  fire,  and  if  it  had  been  —  as  it  was 
not — one  of  the  annoyances  she  in  general  expected 
from  him,  she  might  have  received  the  impression 
that  his  flush  was  the  heat  of  liquor. 

"  He 's  to  keep  out  of  the  way,"  she  returned  — 
"when  he  has  led  one  so  deeply  to  hope  it."  There 
had  been  a  bunch  of  keys  dangling  from  the  secretary, 
of  which  as  she  said  these  words  Mrs.  Brookenham 

39 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

took  possession.  Her  air  on  observing  them  had 
promptly  become  that  of  having  been  in  search  of 
them,  and  a  moment  after  she  had  passed  across  the 
room  they  were  in  her  pocket.  "  If  you  don't  go  what 
excuse  will  you  give  ? " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  you,  mummy  ? " 

She  stood  before  him  and  now  dismally  looked  at 
him.  "What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  an  extra 
ordinary  time  to  take  a  nap!" 

He  had  fallen  back  in  the  chair,  from  the  depths 
of  which  he  met  her  eyes.  "Why  it's  just  the  time, 
mummy.  I  did  it  on  purpose.  I  can  always  go  to 
sleep  when  I  like.  I  assure  you  it  sees  one  through 
things ! " 

She  turned  away  with  impatience  and,  glancing 
about  the  room,  perceived  on  a  small  table  of  the  same 
type  as  the  secretary  a  somewhat  massive  book  with 
the  label  of  a  circulating  library,  which  she  proceeded 
to  pick  up  as  for  refuge  from  the  impression  made  on 
her  by  her  boy.  He  watched  her  do  this  and  watched 
her  then  slightly  pause  at  the  wide  window  that,  in 
Buckingham  Crescent,  commanded  the  prospect  they 
had  ramified  rearward  to  enjoy ;  a  medley  of  smoky 
brick  and  spotty  stucco,  of  other  undressed  backs,  of 
glass  invidiously  opaque,  of  roofs  and  chimney-pots 
and  stables  unnaturally  near  —  one  of  the  private 
pictures  that  in  London,  in  select  situations,  run  up, 
as  the  phrase  is,  the  rent.  There  was  no  indication 
of  value  now,  however,  in  the  character  conferred  on 
the  scene  by  a  cold  spring  rain.  The  place  had  more 
over  a  confessed  out-of-season  vacancy.  She  appeared 
to  have  determined  on  silence  for  the  present  mark  of 

40 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

her  relation  with  Harold,  yet  she  soon  failed  to  resist 
a  sufficiently  poor  reason  for  breaking  it.  "Be  so 
good  as  to  get  out  of  my  chair/* 

"What  will  you  do  for  me,"  he  asked,  "if  I  oblige 
you?" 

He  never  moved  —  but  as  if  only  the  more  directly 
and  intimately  to  meet  her  —  and  she  stood  again 
before  the  fire  and  sounded  his  strange  little  face. 
"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  you  give  me  sometimes 
a  kind  of  terror." 

"A  terror,  mamma  ?" 

She  found  another  place,  sinking  sadly  down  and 
opening  her  book,  and  the  next  moment  he  got  up  and 
came  over  to  kiss  her,  on  which  she  drew  her  cheek 
wearily  aside.  "You  bore  me  quite  to  death,"  she 
coldly  said,  "and  I  give  you  up  to  your  fate." 

"What  do  you  call  my  fate  ?" 

"Oh  something  dreadful  —  if  only  by  its  being 
publicly  ridiculous."  She  turned  vaguely  the  pages 
of  her  book.  "You're  too  selfish  —  too  sickening." 

"Oh  dear,  dear!"  he  wonderingly  whistled  while 
he  wandered  back  to  the  hearth-rug,  on  which,  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  he  lingered  a  while.  He  was 
small  and  had  a  slight  stoop  which  somehow  gave 
him  character  —  character  of  the  insidious  sort  car 
ried  out  in  the  acuteness,  difficult  to  trace  to  a  source, 
of  his  smooth  fair  face,  where  the  lines  were  all  curves 
and  the  expression  all  needles.  He  had  the  voice  of 
a  man  of  forty  and  was  dressed — as  if  markedly  not 
for  London  —  with  an  air  of  experience  that  seemed 
to  match  it.  He  pulled  down  his  waistcoat,  smoothing 
himself,  feeling  his  neat  hair  and  looking  at  his  shoes. 

41 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  took  your  five  pounds.  Also  two  of  the  sovereigns,** 
he  went  on.  "  I  left  you  two  pound  ten."  His  mother 
jerked  up  her  head  at  this,  facing  him  in  dismay,  and, 
immediately  on  her  feet,  passed  back  to  the  secretary. 
"It's  quite  as  I  say,"  he  insisted;  "you  should  have 
locked  it  before,  don't  you  know  ?  It  grinned  at  me 
there  with  all  its  charming  brasses,  and  what  was  I  to 
do  ?  Darling  mummy,  I  could  n't  start  —  that  was 
the  truth.  I  thought  I  should  find  something  —  I  had 
noticed ;  and  I  do  hope  you  '11  let  me  keep  it,  because 
if  you  don't  it's  all  up  with  me.  I  stopped  over  on 
purpose  —  on  purpose,  I  mean,  to  tell  you  what  I  've 
done.  Don't  you  call  that  a  sense  of  honour  ?  And 
now  you  only  stand  and  glower  at  me." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  was,  in  her  forty-first  year,  still 
charmingly  pretty,  and  the  nearest  approach  she  made 
at  this  moment  to  meeting  her  son's  description  of  her 
was  by  looking  beautifully  desperate.  She  had  about 
her  the  pure  light  of  youth  —  would  always  have  it; 
her  head,  her  figure,  her  flexibility,  her  flickering  col 
our,  her  lovely  silly  eyes,  her  natural  quavering  tone, 
all  played  together  toward  this  effect  by  some  trick 
that  had  never  yet  been  exposed.  It  was  at  the  same 
time  remarkable  that  —  at  least  in  the  bosom  of  her 
family —  she  rarely  wore  an  appearance  of  gaiety  less 
qualified  than  at  the  present  juncture;  she  suggested 
for  the  most  part  the  luxury,  the  novelty  of  woe,  the 
excitement  of  strange  sorrows  and  the  cultivation  of 
fine  indifferences.  This  was  her  special  sign  —  an 
innocence  dimly  tragic.  It  gave  immense  effect  to 
her  other  resources.  She  opened  the  secretary  with 
the  key  she  had  quickly  found,  then  with  the  aid  of 

42 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

another  rattled  out  a  small  drawer;  after  which  she 
pushed  the  drawer  back,  closing  the  whole  thing. 
"You  terrify  me  — you  terrify  me,"  she  again  said. 

"  How  can  you  say  that  when  you  showed  me  just 
now  how  well  you  know  me  ?  Was  n't  it  just  on 
account  of  what  you  thought  I  might  do  that  you 
took  out  the  keys  as  soon  as  you  came  in  ? "  Harold's 
manner  had  a  way  of  clearing  up  whenever  he  could 
talk  of  himself. 

"You're  too  utterly  disgusting  —  I  shall  speak  to 
your  father:"  with  which,  going  to  the  chair  he  had 
given  up,  his  mother  sank  down  again  with  her  heavy 
book.  There  was  no  anger,  however,  in  her  voice,  and 
not  even  a  harsh  plaint;  only  a  detached  accepted  dis 
enchantment.  Mrs.  Brookenham's  supreme  rebellion 
against  fate  was  just  to  show  with  the  last  frankness 
how  much  she  was  bored. 

"No,  darling  mummy,  you  won't  speak  to  my 
father  —  you  '11  do  anything  in  the  world  rather  than 
that,"  Harold  replied,  quite  as  if  he  were  kindly  ex 
plaining  her  to  herself.  "I  thank  you  immensely  for 
the  charming  way  you  take  what  I  've  done ;  it  was 
because  I  had  a  conviction  of  that  that  I  waited  for 
you  to  know  it.  It  was  all  very  well  to  tell  you  I'd 
start  on  my  visit  —  but  how  the  deuce  was  I  to  start 
without  a  penny  in  the  world  ?  Don't  you  see  that  if 
you  want  me  to  go  about  you  must  really  enter  into 
my  needs  ?" 

"I  wish  to  heaven  you'd  leave  me  —  I  wish  to 
heaven  you  'd  get  out  of  the  house,"  Mrs.  Brookenham 
went  on  without  looking  up. 

Harold  took  out  his  watch.    "Well,  mamma,  now 

43 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

I  am  ready:  I  was  n't  in  the  least  before.  But  it  will 
be  going  forth,  you  know,  quite  to  seek  my  fortune. 
For  do  you  really  think  —  I  must  have  from  you 
what  you  do  think  —  that  it  will  be  all  right  for  me  ?" 

She  fixed  him  at  last  with  her  pretty  pathos.  "You 
mean  for  you  to  go  to  Brander  ? " 

"You  know,"  he  answered  with  his  manner  as  of 
letting  her  see  her  own  attitude,  "you  know  you  try  to 
make  me  do  things  you  would  n't  at  all  do  yourself. 
At  least  I  hope  you  would  n't.  And  don't  you  see  that 
if  I  so  far  oblige  you  I  must  at  least  be  paid  for  it  ? " 

His  mother  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  gazed  for  a 
moment  at  the  ceiling  and  then  closed  her  eyes.  "You 
are  frightful,"  she  said.  "You're  appalling." 

"You're  always  wanting  to  get  me  out  of  the 
house,"  he  continued ;  "  I  think  you  want  to  get  us  all 
out,  for  you  manage  to  keep  Nanda  from  showing 
even  more  than  you  do  me.  Don't  you  think  your 
children  good  enough,  mummy  dear  ?  At  any  rate  it's 
as  plain  as  possible  that  if  you  don't  keep  us  at  home 
you  must  keep  us  in  other  places.  One  can't  live 
anywhere  for  nothing  —  it's  all  bosh  that  a  fellow 
saves  by  staying  with  people.  I  don't  know  how  it  is 
for  a  lady,  but  a  man's  practically  let  in  — " 

"Do  you  know  you  kill  me,  Harold?"  Mrs. 
Brookenham  woefully  interposed.  But  it  was  with  the 
same  remote  melancholy  that  she  asked  in  the  next 
breath :  "  It  was  n't  an  invitation  —  to  Brander  ? " 

"It's  as  I  told  you.  She  said  she'd  write,  fixing 
a  time;  but  she  never  did  write." 

"But  if  you  wrote  — " 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing?  Does  it?  —  that's 
44 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

the  question.  If  on  my  note  she  did  n't  write  —  that's 
what  I  mean.  Should  one  simply  take  it  that  one's 
wanted  ?  I  like  to  have  these  things  from  you,  mother. 
I  do,  I  believe,  everything  you  say;  but  to  feel  safe 
and  right  I  must  just  have  them.  Any  one  would 
want  me,  eh  ?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  had  opened  her  eyes,  but  she 
still  attached  them  to  the  cornice.  "  If  she  had  n't 
wanted  you  she'd  have  written  to  keep  you  off.  In 
a  great  house  like  that  there's  always  room." 

The  young  man  watched  her  a  moment.  "  How  you 
do  like  to  tuck  us  in  and  then  sit  up  yourself!  What 
do  you  want  to  do,  anyway  ?  What  are  you  up  to, 
mummy  ?" 

She  rose  at  this,  turning  her  eyes  about  the  room  as 
if  from  the  extremity  of  martyrdom  or  the  wistfulness 
of  some  deep  thought.  Yet  when  she  spoke  it  was  with 
a  different  expression,  an  expression  that  would  have 
served  for  an  observer  as  a  marked  illustration  of  that 
disconnectedness  of  her  parts  which  frequently  was 
laughable  even  to  the  degree  of  contributing  to  her 
social  success.  "You've  spent  then  more  than  four 
pounds  in  five  days.  It  was  on  Friday  I  gave  them  to 
you.  What  in  the  world  do  you  suppose  is  going  to 
become  of  me  ? " 

Harold  continued  to  look  at  her  as  if  the  question 
demanded  some  answer  really  helpful.  "Do  we  live 
beyond  our  means?" 

She  now  moved  her  gaze  to  the  floor.  "Will  you 
please  get  away  ? " 

"Anything  to  assist  you.  Only,  if  I  should  find 
I  'm  not  wanted  —  ? " 

45 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

She  met  his  look  after  an  instant,  and  the  wan  love 
liness  and  vagueness  of  her  own  had  never  been 
greater.  "Be  wanted,  and  you  won't  find  it.  You're 
odious,  but  you  're  not  a  fool." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  now  for  farewell,  and  she 
submitted  as  if  it  was  absolutely  indifferent  to  her  to 
whose  bosom  she  was  pressed.  "You  do,  dearest,"  he 
laughed,  "say  such  sweet  things!"  And  with  that  he 
reached  the  door,  on  opening  which  he  pulled  up  at 
a  sound  from  below.  "The  Duchess!  She's  coming 
up." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  looked  quickly  round  the  room, 
but  she  spoke  with  utter  detachment.  "Well,  let  her 
come." 

"As  I'd  let  her  go.  I  take  it  as  a  happy  sign  she 
won't  be  at  Brander."  He  stood  with  his  hand  on 
the  knob ;  he  had  another  quick  appeal.  "  But  after 
Tuesday  ?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  had  passed  half  round  the  room 
with  the  glide  that  looked  languid  but  that  was  really 
a  remarkable  form  of  activity,  and  had  given  a  trans 
forming  touch,  on  sofa  and  chairs,  to  three  or  four 
crushed  cushions.  It  was  all  with  the  hanging  head  of 
a  broken  lily.  "You're  to  stay  till  the  twelfth." 

"But  if  I  am  kicked  out  ?" 

It  was  as  a  broken  lily  that  she  considered  it.  "Then 
go  to  the  Mangers." 

"  Happy  thought !    And  shall  I  write  ? " 

His  mother  raised  a  little  more  a  window-blind. 
"No  — I  will." 

"Delicious  mummy!"  And  Harold  blew  her  a  kiss. 

"Yes,  rather"  —  she  corrected  herself.  "Do 
46 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

write  —  from  Brander.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  for  the 
Mangers.  Or  even  wire." 

"Both?"  the  young  man  laughed.  "Oh  you 
duck!"  he  cried.  "And  from  where  will  you  let 
them  have  it  ? " 

"From  Pewbury,"  she  replied  without  wincing. 
"I'll  write  on  Sunday." 

"Good.  How  d'ye  do,  Duchess  ?"  —  and  Harold, 
before  he  disappeared,  greeted  with  a  rapid  concen 
tration  of  all  the  shades  of  familiarity  a  large  high 
lady,  the  visitor  he  had  announced,  who  rose  in  the 
doorway  with  the  manner  of  a  person  used  to  arriving 
on  thresholds  very  much  as  people  arrive  at  stations 
—  with  the  expectation  of  being  "  met." 


II 

" GOOD-BYE.  He's  off,"  Mrs.  Brookenham,  who  had 
remained  quite  on  her  own  side  of  the  room,  explained 
to  her  friend. 

"Where's  he  off  to  ?"  this  friend  enquired  with  a 
casual  advance  and  a  look  not  so  much  at  her  hostess 
as  at  the  cushions  just  rearranged. 

"Oh  to  some  places.  To  Brander  to-day." 
"How  he  does  run  about!"  And  the  Duchess,  still 
with  a  glance  hither  and  yon,  sank  upon  the  sofa  to 
which  she  had  made  her  way  unaided.  Mrs.  Brook 
enham  knew  perfectly  the  meaning  of  this  glance : 
she  had  but  three  or  four  comparatively  good  pieges, 
whereas  the  Duchess,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  Italy,  had 
but  three  or  four  comparatively  bad.  This  was  the 
relation,  as  between  intimate  friends,  that  the  Duch 
ess  visibly  preferred,  and  it  was  quite  groundless, 
in  Buckingham  Crescent,  ever  to  enter  the  drawing- 
room  with  an  expression  suspicious  of  disloyalty. 
The  Duchess  was  a  woman  who  so  cultivated  her 
passions  that  she  would  have  regarded  it  as  disloyal 
to  introduce  there  a  new  piece  of  furniture  in  an 
underhand  way  —  that  is  without  a  full  appeal  to 
herself,  the  highest  authority,  and  the  consequent 
bestowal  of  opportunity  to  nip  the  mistake  in  the 
bud.  Mrs.  Brookenham  had  repeatedly  asked  herself 
where  in  the  world  she  might  have  found  the  money 
to  be  disloyal.  The  Duchess's  standard  was  of  a 

48 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

height  — !  It  matched  for  that  matter  her  other 
elements,  which  were  wontedly  conspicuous  as  usual 
as  she  sat  there  suggestive  of  early  tea.  She  always 
suggested  tea  before  the  hour,  and  her  friend  always, 
but  with  so  different  a  wistfulness,  rang  for  it. 
"Who's  to  be  at  Brander?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  —  he  did  n't  tell  me.  But 
they  've  always  a  lot  of  people." 

"  Oh  I  know  —  extraordinary  mixtures.  Has  he 
been  there  before?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  thought.  "Oh  yes  —  if  I  re 
member  —  more  than  once.  In  fact  her  note  —  which 
he  showed  me,  but  which  only  mentioned  'some 
friends '  —  was  a  sort  of  appeal  on  the  ground  of 
something  or  other  that  had  happened  the  last 
time." 

The  Duchess  dealt  with  it.  "She  writes  the  most 
extraordinary  notes." 

"Well,  this  was  nice,  I  thought,"  Mrs.  Brooken 
ham  said  —  "from  a  woman  of  her  age  and  her  im 
mense  position  to  so  young  a  man." 

Again  the  Duchess  reflected.  "My  dear,  she's  not 
an  American  and  she 's  not  on  the  stage.  Are  n't  those 
what  you  call  positions  in  this  country  ?  And  she 's 
also  not  a  hundred." 

"Yes,  but  Harold's  a  mere  baby." 

"Then  he  does  n't  seem  to  want  for  nurses!"  the 
Duchess  replied.  She  smiled  at  her  hostess.  "Your 
children  are  like  their  mother  —  they  're  eternally 
young." 

"Well,  7'm  not  a  hundred!"  moaned  Mrs.  Brook 
enham  as  if  she  wished  with  dim  perversity  she  were. 

49 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Every  one's  at  any  rate  awfully  kind  to  Harold." 
She  waited  a  moment  to  give  her  visitor  the  chance 
to  pronounce  that  eminently  natural,  but  no  pro 
nouncement  came  —  nothing  but  the  footman  who 
had  answered  her  ring  and  of  whom  she  ordered  tea. 
"And  where  did  you  say  you  're  going  ?"  she  enquired 
after  this. 

"For  Easter?"  The  Duchess  achieved  a  direct 
encounter  with  her  charming  eyes  —  which  was  not 
in  general  an  easy  feat.  "I  did  n't  say  I  was  going 
anywhere.  I  have  n't  of  a  sudden  changed  my  habits. 
You  know  whether  I  leave  my  child  —  except  in  the 
sense  of  having  left  her  an  hour  ago  at  Mr.  Garlick's 
class  in  Modern  Light  Literature.  I  confess  I'm 
a  little  nervous  about  the  subjects  and  am  going  for 
her  at  five." 

"And  then  where  do  you  take  her?" 

"Home  to  her  tea.    Where  should  you  think  ?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  declined,  in  connexion  with  the 
matter,  any  responsibility  of  thought;  she  did  indeed 
much  better  by  saying  after  a  moment:  "You  are 
devoted ! " 

"Miss  Merriman  has  her  afternoon  —  I  can't  imag 
ine  what  they  do  with  their  afternoons,"  the  Duchess 
went  on.  "  But  she 's  to  be  back  in  the  school-room  at 
seven." 

"And  you  have  Aggie  till  then  ?" 

"Till  then,"  said  the  Duchess  cheerfully.  "You're 
off  for  Easter  to  —  where  is  it  ?"  she  continued. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  had  received  with  no  flush  of 
betrayal  the  various  discriminations  thus  conveyed  by 
her  visitor,  and  her  only  revenge  for  the  moment  was 

5° 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

to  look  as  sweetly  resigned  as  if  she  really  saw  what 
was  in  them.  Where  were  they  going  for  Easter  ?  She 
had  to  think  an  instant,  but  she  brought  it  out.  "Oh 
to  Pewbury  —  we  've  been  engaged  so  long  that  I  had 
forgotten.  We  go  once  a  year  —  one  does  it  for 
Edward." 

"  Ah  you  spoil  him ! "  smiled  the  Duchess.  "  Who 's 
to  be  there  ? " 

"Oh  the  usual  thing,  I  suppose.  A  lot  of  my  lord's 
tiresome  supporters." 

"To  pay  his  debt  ?  Then  why  are  you  poor  things 
asked?"  J 

Mrs.  Brookenham  looked,  on  this,  quite  adorably — 
that  is  most  wonderingly  —  grave.  "  How  do  I  know, 
my  dear  Jane,  why  in  the  world  we're  ever  asked 
anywhere  ?  Fancy  people  wanting  Edward ! "  she 
exhaled  with  stupefaction.  "Yet  we  can  never  get 
off  Pewbury." 

"You're  better  for  getting  on,  car  a  mia,  than  for 
getting  off!"  the  Duchess  blandly  returned.  She  was 
a  person  of  no  small  presence,  rilling  her  place,  how 
ever,  without  ponderosity,  with  a  massiveness  indeed 
rather  artfully  kept  in  bounds.  Her  head,  her  chin, 
her  shoulders  were  well  aloft,  but  she  had  not  aban 
doned  the  cultivation  of  a  "figure"  or  any  of  the 
distinctively  finer  reasons  for  passing  as  a  handsome 
woman.  She  was  secretly  at  war  moreover,  in  this 
endeavour,  with  a  lurking  no  less  than  with  a  public 
foe,  and  thoroughly  aware  that  if  she  did  n't  look  well 
she  might  at  times  only,  and  quite  dreadfully,  look 
good.  There  were  definite  ways  of  escape,  none  of 
which  she  neglected  and  from  the  total  of  which,  as 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

she  flattered  herself,  the  air  of  distinction  almost  math 
ematically  resulted.  This  air  corresponded  super 
ficially  with  her  acquired  Calabrian  sonorities,  from 
her  voluminous  title  down,  but  the  colourless  hair,  the 
passionless  forehead,  the  mild  cheek  and  long  lip  of 
the  British  matron,  the  type  that  had  set  its  trap  for 
her  earlier  than  any  other,  were  elements  difficult  to 
deal  with  and  were  at  moments  all  a  sharp  observer 
saw.  The  battle-ground  then  was  the  haunting  dan 
ger  of  the  bourgeois.  She  gave  Mrs.  Brookenham 
no  time  to  resent  her  last  note  before  enquiring  if 
Nanda  were  to  accompany  the  couple. 

"Mercy  mercy,  no  —  she's  not  asked."  Mrs. 
Brookenham,  on  Nanda's  behalf,  fairly  radiated  ob 
scurity.  "My  children  don't  go  where  they're  not 
asked." 

"I  never  said  they  did,  love,"  the  Duchess  returned. 
"  But  what  then  do  you  do  with  her  ? " 

"If  you  mean  socially" — Mrs.  Brookenham  looked 
as  if  there  might  be  in  some  distant  sphere,  for  which 
she  almost  yearned,  a  maternal  opportunity  very  dif 
ferent  from  that  —  "if  you  mean  socially,  I  don't  do 
anything  at  all.  I  've  never  pretended  to  do  anything. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  dear  Jane,  that  I  have  n't 
begun  yet."  Jane's  hostess  now  spoke  as  simply  as  an 
earnest  anxious  child.  She  gave  a  vague  patient  sigh. 
"I  suppose  I  must  begin!" 

The  Duchess  remained  for  a  little  rather  grimly 
silent.  "  How  old  is  she  —  twenty  ? " 

"Thirty!"  said  Mrs.  Brookenham  with  distilled 
sweetness.  Then  with  no  transition  of  tone:  "She  has 
gone  for  a  few  days  to  Tishy  Grendon." 

52 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

"In  the  country?" 

"She  stays  with  her  to-night  in  Hill  Street.  They 
go  down  together  to-morrow.  Why  has  n't  Aggie 
been?"  Mrs.  Brookenham  went  on. 

The  Duchess  handsomely  stared.   "Been  where  ?" 

"Why  here,  to  see  Nanda." 

"Here  ?"  the  Duchess  echoed,  fairly  looking  again 
about  the  room.  "When  is  Nanda  ever  here  ?" 

"Ah  you  know  I  Ve  given  her  a  room  of  her  own  — 
the  sweetest  little  room  in  the  world."  Mrs.  Brooken 
ham  never  looked  so  comparatively  hopeful  as  when 
obliged  to  explain.  "She  has  everything  there  a  girl 
can  want." 

"My  dear  woman,"  asked  the  Duchess,  "has  she 
sometimes  her  own  mother?" 

The  men  had  now  come  in  to  place  the  tea-table, 
and  it  was  the  movements  of  the  red-haired  footman 
that  Mrs.  Brookenham  followed.  "You  had  better 
ask  my  child  herself." 

The  Duchess  was  frank  and  jovial.  "I  would,  I 
promise  you,  if  I  could  get  at  her !  But  is  n't  that 
woman  always  with  her?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  smoothed  the  little  embroidered 
tea-cloth.  "Do  you  call  Tishy  Grendon  a  woman  ?" 

Again  the  Duchess  had  one  of  her  pauses,  which 
were  indeed  so  frequent  in  her  talks  with  this  intimate 
that  an  auditor  could  sometimes  wonder  what  par 
ticular  form  of  relief  they  represented.  They  might 
have  been  a  habit  proceeding  from  the  fear  of  undue 
impatience.  If  the  Duchess  had  been  as  impatient 
with  Mrs.  Brookenham  as  she  would  possibly  have 
seemed  without  them  her  frequent  visits  in  the  face 

53 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

of  irritation  would  have  had  to  be  accounted  for. 
"  What  do  you  call  her  ? "  she  demanded. 

"Why  Nanda's  best  friend  —  if  not  her  only  one. 
That's  the  place  I  should  have  liked  for  Aggie,"  Mrs. 
Brookenham  ever  so  graciously  smiled. 

The  Duchess  hereupon,  going  beyond  her,  gave 
way  to  free  mirth.  "  My  dear  tiring,  you  're  delightful. 
Aggie  or  Tishy  is  a  sweet  thought.  Since  you  're  so 
good  as  to  ask  why  Aggie  has  fallen  off  you  '11  excuse 
my  telling  you  that  you've  jus.t  named  the  reason. 
You've  known  ever  since  we  came  to  England  what 
I  feel  about  the  proper  persons  —  and  the  most  im 
proper  —  for  her  to  meet.  The  Tishy  Grendons  are 
not  a  bit  the  proper." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  continued  to  assist  a  little  in 
the  preparations  for  tea.  "Why  not  say  at  once, 
Jane"  —  and  her  tone,  in  its  appeal,  was  almost 
infantine  —  "  that  you  've  come  at  last  to  placing 
even  poor  Nanda,  for  Aggie's  wonderful  purpose,  in 
the  same  impossible  class  ?" 

The  Duchess  took  her  time,  but  at  last  she  accepted 
her  duty.  "Well,  if  you  will  have  it.  You  know 
my  ideas.  If  it  is  n't  my  notion  of  the  way  to  bring 
up  a  girl  to  give  her  up,  in  extreme  youth,  to  an 
intimacy  with  a  young  married  woman  who's  both 
unhappy  and  silly,  whose  conversation  has  absolutely 
no  limits,  who  says  everything  that  comes  into  her 
head  and  talks  to  the  poor  child  about  God  only 
knows  what  —  if  I  should  never  dream  of  such 
an  arrangement  for  my  niece  I  can  almost  as  little 
face  the  prospect  of  throwing  her  much,  don't  you 
see  ?  with  any  young  person  exposed  to  such  an 

54 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

association.  It  would  be  in  the  natural  order  cer 
tainly"  —  in  spite  of  which  natural  order  the  Duch 
ess  made  the  point  with  but  moderate  emphasis 
—  "that,  since  dear  Edward  is  my  cousin,  Aggie 
should  see  at  least  as  much  of  Nanda  as  of  any  other 
girl  of  their  age.  But  what  will  you  have  ?  I  must 
recognise  the  predicament  I'm  placed  in  by  the 
more  and  more  extraordinary  development  of  Eng 
lish  manners.  Many  things  have  altered,  goodness 
knows,  since  I  was  Aggie's  age,  but  nothing's  so  dif 
ferent  as  what  you  all  do  with  your  girls.  It's  all 
a  muddle,  a  compromise,  a  monstrosity,  like  every 
thing  else  you  produce;  there's  nothing  in  it  that 
goes  on  all-fours.  7  see  but  one  consistent  way,  which 
is  our  fine  old  foreign  way  and  which  makes  —  in  the 
upper  classes,  mind  you,  for  it's  with  them  only  I'm 
concerned  —  des  femmes  bien  gracieuses,  I  allude 
to  the  immemorial  custom  of  my  husband's  race, 
which  was  good  enough  for  his  mother  and  his 
mother's  mother,  for  Aggie's  own,  for  his  other  sisters, 
for  toutes  ces  dames.  It  would  have  been  good  enough 
for  my  child,  as  I  call  her  —  my  dear  husband  called 
her  his  —  if,  not  losing  her  parents,  she  had  remained 
in  her  own  country.  She  would  have  been  brought 
up  there  under  an  anxious  eye  —  that's  the  great 
point;  privately,  carefully,  tenderly,  and  with  what 
she  was  not  to  learn  —  till  the  proper  time  —  looked 
after  quite  as  much  as  the  rest.  I  can  only  go  on  with 
her  in  that  spirit  and  make  of  her,  under  Providence, 
what  I  consider  any  young  person  of  her  condition, 
of  her  name,  of  her  particular  traditions,  should  be. 
Voila,  ma  chere.  Should  you  put  it  to  me  whether 

55 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

I  think  you're  surrounding  Nanda  with  any  such  se 
curity  as  that  —  well,  I  should  n't  be  able  to  help  it  if 
I  offended  you  by  an  honest  answer.  What  it  comes 
to,  simply  stated,  is  that  really  she  must  choose  be 
tween  Aggie  and  Tishy.  I  'm  afraid  I  should  shock 
you  were  I  to  tell  you  what  I  should  think  of  myself 
for  packing  my  child,  all  alone,  off  for  a  week  with 
Mrs.  Grendon." 

Mrs.  Brookenham,  who  had  many  talents,  had  none 
perhaps  that  she  oftener  found  useful  than  that  of 
listening  with  the  appearance  of  being  fairly  hyp 
notised.  It  was  the  way  she  listened  to  her  house 
keeper  at  their  regular  morning  conference,  and  if 
the  rejoinder  ensuing  upon  it  frequently  appeared  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  her  manner  this  was  a  puzzle 
for  her  interlocutor  alone.  "Oh  of  course  I  know 
your  theory,  dear  Jane,  and  I  dare  say  it's  very 
charming  and  old-fashioned  and,  if  you  like,  aristo 
cratic,  in  a  frowsy  foolish  old  way  —  though  even  upon 
that,  at  the  same  time,  there  would  be  something  too 
to  be  said.  But  I  can  only  congratulate  you  on  find 
ing  it  more  workable  than  there  can  be  any  question 
of  my  finding  it.  If  you  're  all  armed  for  the  sacrifices 
you  speak  of  I  simply  am  not.  I  don't  think  I  'm  quite 
a  monster,  but  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  saint.  I  'm  an 
English  wife  and  an  English  mother  —  I  live  in  the 
mixed  English  wrorld.  My  daughter,  at  any  rate,  is 
just  my  daughter,  I  thank  my  stars,  and  one  of  a  good 
English  bunch :  she 's  not  the  unique  niece  of  my 
dead  Italian  husband,  nor  doubtless  either,  in  spite 
of  her  excellent  birth,  of  a  lineage,  like  Aggie's,  so 
very  tremendous.  I've  my  life  to  lead  and  she's 

56 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

a  part  of  it.  Sugar  ? "  she  wound  up  on  a  still  softer 
note  as  she  handed  the  cup  of  tea. 

"Never!  Well,  with  me"  said  the  Duchess  with 
spirit,  "she  would  be  all." 

"All'  is  soon  said!  Life  is  composed  of  many 
things,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  gently  rang  out  —  "of 
such  mingled  intertwisted  strands ! "  Then  still  with 
the  silver  bell,  "  Don't  you  really  think  Tishy  nice  ? " 
she  asked. 

"I  think  little  girls  should  live  with  little  girls  and 
young  femmes  du  monde  so  immensely  initiated  should 

—  well,"  said  the  Duchess  with  a  toss  of  her  head, 
"  let  them  alone.    What  do  they  want  of  them  '  at  all 
at  all'?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  if  Tishy  strikes  you  as  *  initiated' 
all  one  can  ask  is  'Initiated  into  what  ?'  I  should  as 
soon  think  of  applying  such  a  term  to  a  little  shivering 
shorn  lamb.  Is  it  your  theory,"  Mrs.  Brookenham 
pursued,  "that  our  unfortunate  unmarried  daughters 
are  to  have  no  intelligent  friends  ?" 

"Unfortunate  indeed,"  cried  the  Duchess,  "pre 
cisely  because  they're  unmarried,  and  unmarried,  if 
you  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  a  good  deal  because 
they're  unmarriageable.  Men,  after  all,  the  nice 
ones  —  by  which  I  mean  the  possible  ones  —  are  not 
on  the  lookout  for  little  brides  whose  usual  asso 
ciates  are  so  up  to  snuff.  It's  not  their  idea  that  the 
girls  they  marry  shall  already  have  been  pitchforked 

—  by  talk  and  contacts  and  visits  and  newspapers 
and  by  the  way  the  poor  creatures  rush  about  and  all 
the  extraordinary  things  they  do  —  quite  into  every 
thing.    A  girl's  most  intelligent  friend  is  her  mother 

57 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

—  or  the  relative  acting  as  such.  Perhaps  you  con 
sider  that  Tishy  takes  your  place ! " 

Mrs.  Brookenham  waited  so  long  to  say  what  she 
considered  that  before  she  next  spoke  the  question 
appeared  to  have  dropped.  Then  she  only  replied  as 
if  suddenly  remembering  her  manners:  "Won't  you 
eat  something?"  She  indicated  a  particular  plate. 
"One  of  the  nice  little  round  ones  ?"  The  Duchess 
appropriated  a  nice  little  round  one  and  her  hostess 
presently  went  on:  "There's  one  thing  I  mustn't 
forget  —  don't  let  us  eat  them  all.  I  believe  they're 
what  Lord  Petherton  really  comes  for." 

The  Duchess  finished  her  mouthful  imperturbably 
before  she  took  this  up.  "  Does  he  come  so  often  ? " 

Mrs.  Brookenham  might  have  been,  for  judicious 
candour,  the  Muse  of  History.  "I  don't  know  what 
he  calls  it;  but  he  said  yesterday  that  he'd  come  to 
day.  I  've  had  tea  earlier  for  you,"  she  went  on  with 
her  most  melancholy  kindness  —  "and  he's  always 
late.  But  we  must  n't,  between  us,  lick  the  platter 
clean." 

The  Duchess  entered  very  sufficiently  into  her 
companion's  tone.  "Oh  I  don't  feel  at  all  obliged 
to  consider  him,  for  he  has  not  of  late  particularly 
put  himself  out  for  me.  He  has  not  been  to  see  me 
since  I  don't  know  when,  and  the  last  time  he  did 
come  he  brought  Mr.  Mitchett." 

"Here  it  was  the  other  way  round.  It  was  Mr. 
Mitchett,  the  other  year,  who  first  brought  Lord 
Petherton." 

"And  who,"  asked  the  Duchess,  "had  first  brought 
Mr.  Mitchett?" 

58 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

Mrs.  Brookenham,  meeting  her  friend's  eyes, 
looked  for  an  instant  as  if  trying  to  recall.  "I  give  it 
up.  I  muddle  beginnings." 

"That  does  n't  matter  if  you  only  make  them,"  the 
Duchess  smiled. 

"No,  does  it?"  To  which  Mrs.  Brookenham 
added:  "Did  he  bring  Mr.  Mitchett  for  Aggie  ?" 

"If  he  did  they'll  have  been  disappointed.  Nei 
ther  of  them  has  seen,  in  my  house,  the  tip  of  her 
nose."  The  Duchess  announced  it  with  a  pomp  of 
pride. 

"Ah  but  with  your  ideas  that  does  n't  prevent." 

"Prevent  what?" 

"Why  what  I  suppose  you  call  the  pourparlers" 

"  For  Aggie's  hand  ?  My  dear,"  said  the  Duchess, 
"I'm  glad  you  do  me  the  justice  of  feeling  that  I'm 
a  person  to  take  time  by  the  forelock.  It  was  not,  as 
you  seem  to  remember,  with  the  sight  of  Mr.  Mitchett 
that  the  question  of  Aggie's  hand  began  to  occupy  me. 
I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  it  were  n't  constantly 
before  me  and  if  I  had  n't  my  feelers  out  in  more 
quarters  than  one.  But  I  've  not  so  much  as  thought 
of  Mr.  Mitchett  —  who,  rich  as  he  may  be,  is  the 
son  of  a  shoemaker  and  superlatively  hideous  —  for 
a  reason  I  don't  at  all  mind  telling  you.  Don't  be 
outraged  if  I  say  that  I've  for  a  long  time  hoped 
you  yourself  would  find  the  right  use  for  him."  She 
paused  —  at  present  with  a  momentary  failure  of 
assurance,  from  which  she  rallied,  however,  to  pro 
ceed  with  a  burst  of  earnestness  that  was  fairly  noble. 
"Forgive  me  if  I  just  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it 
strikes  me.  I'm  stupefied  at  your  not  seeming  to 

59 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

recognise  either  your  interest  or  your  duty.  Oh  I 
know  you  want  to,  but  you  appear  to  me  —  in  your 
perfect  good  faith  of  course  —  utterly  at  sea.  They're 
one  and  the  same  thing,  don't  you  make  out  ?  your 
interest  and  your  duty.  Why  is  n't  it  convincingly 
plain  to  you  that  the  thing  to  do  with  Nanda  is  just 
to  marry  her  —  and  to  marry  her  soon  ?  That's  the 
great  thing  —  do  it  while  you  can.  If  you  don't  want 
her  downstairs  —  at  which,  let  me  say,  I  don't  in  the 
least  wonder  —  your  remedy  is  to  take  the  right 
alternative.  Don't  send  her  to  Tishy — ' 

"Send  her  to  Mr.  Mitchett?"  Mrs.  Brookenham 
unresentfully  quavered.  Her  colour,  during  her  vis 
itor's  address  had  distinctly  risen,  but  there  was  no 
irritation  in  her  voice.  "How  do  you  know,  Jane, 
that  I  don't  want  her  downstairs?" 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  with  an  audacity  con 
firmed  by  the  absence  from  her  face  of  everything  but 
the  plaintive.  "There  you  are,  with  your  eternal  Eng 
lish  false  positions!  J'atme,  mot,  les  situations  nettes  — 
je  n'en  comprends  pas  d'autres.  It  would  n't  be  to 
your  honour  —  to  that  of  your  delicacy  —  that  with 
your  impossible  house  you  should  wish  to  plant  your 
girl  in  your  drawing-room.  But  such  a  way  of  keep 
ing  her  out  of  it  as  throwing  her  into  a  worse  — !" 

"  Well,  Jane,  you  do  say  things  to  me ! "  Mrs.  Brook 
enham  blandly  broke  in.  She  had  sunk  back  into  her 
chair;  her  hands,  in  her  lap  pressed  themselves  to 
gether  and  her  wan  smile  brought  a  tear  into  each  of 
her  eyes  by  the  very  effort  to  be  brighter.  It  might 
have  been  guessed  of  her  that  she  hated  to  seem  to 
care,  but  that  she  had  other  dislikes  too.  "  If  one  were 

60 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

to  take  up,  you  know,  some  of  the  things  you  say  — ! " 
And  she  positively  sighed  for  the  wealth  of  amuse 
ment  at  them  of  which  her  tears  were  the  sign. 

Her  friend  could  quite  match  her  indifference. 
"Well,  my  child,  take  them  up ;  if  you  were  to  do  that 
with  them  candidly,  one  by  one,  you  would  do  really 
very  much  what  I  should  like  to  bring  you  to.  Do  you 
see?"  Mrs.  Brookenham's  failure  to  repudiate  the 
vision  appeared  to  suffice,  and  her  visitor  cheerfully 
took  a  further  jump.  "As  much  of  Tishy  as  she  wants 
—  after.  But  not  before." 

"After  what?" 

"  Well  —  say  after  Mr.  Mitchett.  Mr.  Mitchett 
won't  take  her  after  Mrs.  Grendon." 

"And  what  are  your  grounds  for  assuming  that  he  '11 
take  her  at  all?"  Then  as  the  Duchess  hung  fire 
a  moment:  "Have  you  got  it  by  chance  from  Lord 
Petherton  ? " 

The  eyes  of  the  two  women  met  for  a  little  on  this, 
and  there  might  have  been  a  consequence  of  it  in  the 
manner  of  what  came.  "I've  got  it  from  not  being 
a  fool.  Men,  I  repeat,  like  the  girls  they  marry  — " 

"Oh  I  already  know  your  old  song!  The  way  they 
like  the  girls  they  don't  marry  seems  to  be,"  Mrs. 
Brookenham  mused,  "what  more  immediately  con 
cerns  us.  You  had  better  wait  till  you  have  made 
Aggie's  fortune  perhaps  —  to  be  so  sure  of  the  work 
ing  of  your  system.  Pardon  me,  darling,  if  I  don't 
take  you  for  an  example  until  you've  a  little  more 
successfully  become  one.  I  know  what  the  sort  of 
men  worth  speaking  of  are  not  looking  for.  They 
are  looking  for  smart  safe  sensible  English  girls." 

61 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

The  Duchess  glanced  at  the  clock.  "What's  Mr. 
Vanderbank  looking  for?" 

Her  companion  appeared  to  oblige  her  by  anxiously 
thinking.  "Oh,  he,  I'm  afraid,  poor  dear  —  for 
nothing  at  all!" 

The  Duchess  had  taken  off  a  glove  to  appease  her 
appetite,  and  now,  drawing  it  on,  she  smoothed  it 
down.  "I  think  he  has  his  ideas." 

"The  same  as  yours  ?" 

"Well,  more  like  them  than  like  yours." 

"Ah  perhaps  then  —  for  he  and  I,"  said  Mrs. 
Brookenham,  "don't  agree,  I  feel,  on  two  things  in 
the  world.  So  you  think  poor  Mitchy,"  she  went 
on,  "who's  the  son  of  a  shoemaker  and  who  might 
be  the  grandson  of  a  grasshopper,  good  enough  for 
my  child." 

The  Duchess  appreciated  for  a  moment  the  su 
perior  fit  of  her  glove.  "  I  look  facts  in  the  face.  It 's 
exactly  what  I  'm  doing  for  Aggie."  Then  she  grew 
easy  to  extravagance.  "  What  are  you  giving  her  ? " 

But  Mrs.  Brookenham  took  without  wincing  what 
ever,  as  between  a  masterful  relative  and  an  exposed 
frivolity,  might  have  been  the  sting  of  it.  "That  you 
must  ask  Edward.  I  have  n't  the  least  idea." 

"There  you  are  again  —  the  virtuous  English 
mother!  I've  got  Aggie's  little  fortune  in  an  old 
stocking  and  I  count  it  over  every  night.  If  you  've  no 
old  stocking  for  Nanda  there  are  worse  fates  than 
shoemakers  and  grasshoppers.  Even  with  one,  you 
know,  I  don't  at  all  say  that  I  should  sniff  at  poor 
Mitchy.  We  must  take  what  we  can  get  and  I  shall 
be  the  first  to  take  it.  You  can't  have  everything  for 

62 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

ninepence."  And  the  Duchess  got  up  —  shining, 
however,  with  a  confessed  light  of  fantasy.  "  Speak  to 
him,  my  dear  —  speak  to  him ! " 

"Do  you  mean  offer  him  my  child  ?" 

She  laughed  at  the  intonation.  "There  you  are  once 
more — vous  autresl  If  you're  shocked  at  the  idea 
you  'place  drolement  your  delicacy.  I  'd  offer  mine  to 
the  son  of  a  chimney-sweep  if  the  principal  guarantees 
were  there.  Nanda's  charming  —  you  don't  do  her 
justice.  I  don't  say  Mr.  Mitchett's  either  beautiful 
or  noble,  and  he  certainly  has  n't  as  much  distinction 
as  would  cover  the  point  of  a  pin.  He  does  n't  mind 
moreover  what  he  says  —  the  lengths  he  sometimes 
goes  to !  —  but  that,"  added  the  Duchess  with  de 
cision,  "is  no  doubt  much  a  matter  of  how  he  finds 
you'll  take  it.  And  after  marriage  what  does  it  sig 
nify  ?  He  has  forty  thousand  a  year,  an  excellent 
idea  of  how  to  take  care  of  it  and  a  good  disposition." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  sat  still;  she  only  looked  up  at 
her  friend.  "Is  it  by  Lord  Petherton  that  you  know 
of  his  excellent  idea  ?" 

The  Duchess  showed  she  was  challenged,  but  also 
that  she  made  allowances.  "  I  go  by  my  impression. 
But  Lord  Petherton  has  spoken  for  him." 

"  He  ought  to  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brookenham  — 
"since  he  wholly  lives  on  him." 

"Lord  Petherton  —  on  Mr.  Mitchett?"  The 
Duchess  stared,  but  rather  in  amusement  than  in 
horror.  "Why,  has  n't  he  a  —  property  ?" 

"The  loveliest.  Mr.  Mitchett's  his  property. 
Didn't  you  know?"  There  was  an  artless  wail  in 
Mrs.  Brookenham's  surprise. 

63 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"How  should  I  know  —  still  a  stranger  as  I'm 
often  rather  happy  to  feel  myself  here  and  choosing 
my  friends  and  picking  my  steps  very  much,  I  can 
assure  you  —  how  should  I  know  about  all  your 
social  scandals  and  things  ? " 

"Oh  we  don't  call  that  a  social  scandal!"  Mrs. 
Brookenham  inimitably  returned. 

"Well,  if  you  should  wish  to  you'd  have  the  way 
I  tell  you  of  to  stop  it.  Divert  the  stream  of  Mr. 
Mitchett's  wealth." 

"  Oh  there 's  plenty  for  every  one ! " —  Mrs.  Brook 
enham  kept  up  her  tone.  "He's  always  giving  us 
things  —  bonbons  and  dinners  and  opera-boxes." 

"He  has  never  given  me  any,"  the  Duchess  con 
tentedly  declared. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  waited  a  little.  "  Lord  Petherton 
has  the  giving  of  some.  He  has  never  in  his  life  before, 
I  imagine,  made  so  many  presents." 

"Ah  then  it's  a  shame  one  has  nothing!"  On  which 
before  reaching  the  door,  the  Duchess  changed  the 
subject.  "You  say  I  never  bring  Aggie.  If  you  like 
I  '11  bring  her  back." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  wondered.  "Do  you  mean  to 
day?" 

"Yes,  when  I've  picked  her  up.  It  will  be  some 
thing  to  do  with  her  till  Miss  Merriman  can  take  her." 

"Delighted,  dearest;  do  bring  her.  And  I  think  she 
should  see  Mr.  Mitchett." 

"Shall  I  find  him  here  too  then?" 

"Oh  take  the  chance." 

The  two  women,  on  this,  exchanged,  tacitly  and 
across  the  room  —  the  Duchess  at  the  door,  which  a 

64 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

servant  had  arrived  to  open  for  her,  and  Mrs.  Brook- 
enham  still  at  her  tea-table  —  a  further  stroke  of 
intercourse,  over  which  the  latter  was  not  on  this 
occasion  the  first  to  lower  her  lids.  "I  think  I've 
shown  high  scruples,"  the  departing  guest  said,  "  but 
I  understand  then  that  I'm  free." 

"Free  as  air,  dear  Jane." 

"Good."  Then  just  as  she  was  off,  "Ah  dear  old 
Edward ! "  the  guest  exclaimed.  Her  kinsman,  as  she 
was  fond  of  calling  him,  had  reached  the  top  of  the 
staircase,  and  Mrs.  Brookenham,  by  the  fire,  heard 
them  meet  on  the  landing  —  heard  also  the  Duchess 
protest  against  his  turning  to  see  her  down.  Mrs. 
Brookenham,  listening  to  them,  hoped  Edward  would 
accept  the  protest  and  think  it  sufficient  to  leave  her 
with  the  footman.  Their  common  consciousness  that 
she  was  a  kind  of  cousin,  a  consciousness  not  devoid 
of  satisfaction,  was  quite  consistent  with  a  view,  early 
arrived  at,  of  the  absurdity  of  any  fuss  about  her. 


Ill 


WHEN  Mr.  Brookenham  appeared  his  wife  was 
prompt.  "She's  coming  back  for  Lord  Petherton." 

"Oh!"  he  simply  said. 

"There's  something  between  them." 

"Oh!"  he  merely  repeated.  And  it  would  have 
taken  many  such  sounds  on  his  part  to  represent  a 
spirit  of  response  discernible  to  any  one  but  his  mate. 

"There  have  been  things  before,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  I  have  n't  felt  sure.  Don't  you  know  how  one 
has  sometimes  a  flash  ?" 

It  could  n't  be  said  of  Edward  Brookenham,  who 
seemed  to  bend  for  sitting  down  more  hinges  than 
most  men,  that  he  looked  as  if  he  knew  either  this  or 
anything  else.  He  had  a  pale  cold  face,  marked  and 
made  regular,  made  even  in  a  manner  handsome, 
by  a  hardness  of  line  in  which,  oddly,  there  was  no 
significance,  no  accent.  Clean-shaven,  slightly  bald, 
with  unlighted  grey  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  gave 
the  impression  of  not  working  easily,  he  suggested 
a  stippled  drawing  by  an  inferior  master.  Lean  more 
over  and  stiff,  and  with  the  air  of  having  here  and 
there  in  his  person  a  bone  or  two  more  than  his  share, 
he  had  once  or  twice,  at  fancy-balls,  been  thought 
striking  in  a  dress  copied  from  one  of  Holbein's  Eng 
lish  portraits.  But  when  once  some  such  meaning  as 
that  had  been  put  into  him  it  took  a  long  time  to  put 
another,  a  longer  time  than  even  his  extreme  exposure 

66 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

or  anybody's  study  of  the  problem  had  yet  made  pos 
sible.  If  anything  particular  had  finally  been  expected 
from  him  it  might  have  been  a  summary  or  an 
explanation  of  the  things  he  had  always  not  said; 
but  there  was  something  in  him  that  had  long  since 
pacified  all  impatience,  drugged  all  curiosity.  He  had 
never  in  his  life  answered  such  a  question  as  his  wife 
had  just  put  him  and  which  she  would  not  have  put 
had  she  feared  a  reply.  So  dry  and  decent  and  even 
distinguished  did  he  look,  as  if  he  had  positively  been 
created  to  meet  a  propriety  and  match  some  other 
piece,  that  lady,  with  her  famous  perceptions,  would 
no  more  have  appealed  to  him  seriously  on  a  general 
proposition  than  she  would,  for  such  a  response,  have 
rung  the  drawing-room  bell.  He  was  none  the  less 
held  to  have  a  great  promiscuous  wisdom.  "What 
is  it  that 's  between  them  ? "  he  demanded. 

"What's  between  any  woman  and  the  man  she's 
making  up  to  ?" 

"Why  there  may  often  be  nothing.  I  did  n't  know 
she  even  particularly  knew  him,"  Brookenham  added. 

"It's  exactly  what  she  would  like  to  prevent  any 
one's  knowing,  and  her  coming  here  to  be  with  him 
when  she  knows  I  know  she  knows  —  don't  you  see  ? 
—  that  he 's  to  be  here,  is  just  one  of  those  calculations 
that  are  subtle  enough  to  put  off"  the  scent  a  woman 
who  has  but  half  a  nose."  Mrs.  Brookenham  as  she 
spoke  appeared  to  attest  by  the  pretty  star-gazing 
way  she  thrust  it  into  the  air  her  own  possession  of 
the  totality  of  such  a  feature.  "I  don't  know  yet 
quite  what  I  think,  but  one  wakes  up  to  such  things 
soon  enough." 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Do  you  suppose  it's  her  idea  that  he'll  marry 
her?"  Brookenham  asked  in  his  colourless  way. 

"My  dear  Edward!"  his  wife  murmured  for  all 
answer. 

"  But  if  she  can  see  him  in  other  places  why  should 
she  want  to  see  him  here  ? "  Edward  persisted  in  a 
voice  destitute  of  expression. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  now  had  plenty  of  that.  "Do 
you  mean  if  she  can  see  him  in  his  own  house  ?" 

"No  cream,  please,"  her  husband  said.  "Has  n't 
she  a  house  too  ? " 

"Yes,  but  so  pervaded  all  over  by  Aggie  and  Miss 
Merriman." 

"Oh!"  Brookenham  commented. 

"There  has  always  been  some  man  —  I  've  always 
known  there  has.  And  now  it's  Petherton,"  said  his 
companion. 

"But  where 's  the  attraction?" 

"In  him?  Why  lots  of  women  could  tell  you. 
Petherton  has  had  a  career." 

"But  I  mean  in  old  Jane." 

"Well,  I  dare  say  lots  of  men  could  tell  you.  She 's 
no  older  than  any  one  else.  She  has  also  such  great 
elements." 

"  Oh  I  dare  say  she 's  all  right,"  Brookenham  re 
turned  as  if  his  interest  in  the  case  had  dropped. 
You  might  have  felt  you  got  a  little  nearer  to  him  on 
guessing  that  in  so  peopled  a  circle  satiety  was  never 
far  from  him. 

"  I  meai*  for  instance  she  has  such  a  grand  idea  of 
duty.  She  thinks  we're  nowhere!" 

"Nowhere?" 

68 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

"With  our  children  —  with  our  home  life.  She's 
awfully  down  on  Tishy." 

"Tishy?"  —  Edward  appeared  for  a  moment  at 
a  loss. 

"Tishy  Grendon  —  and  her  craze  for  Nanda." 

"Has  she  a  craze  for  Nanda  ?" 

"Surely  I  told  you  Nanda 's  to  be  with  her  for 
Easter/' 

"I  believe  you  did,"  he  bethought  himself,  "but 
you  did  n't  say  anything  about  a  craze.  And  where 's 
Harold  ?"  he  went  on. 

"He's  at  Brander.  That  is  he  will  be  by  dinner. 
He  has  just  gone." 

"And  how  does  he  get  there  ?" 

"Why  by  the  South-Western.  They'll  send  to 
meet  him." 

Brookenham  appeared  for  a  moment  to  view  this 
statement  in  the  dry  light  of  experience.  "They'll 
only  send  if  there  are  others  too." 

"Of  course  then  there'll  be  others  —  lots.  The 
more  the  better  for  Harold." 

This  young  man's  father  was  silent  a  little.  "  Per 
haps  —  if  they  don't  play  high." 

"Ah,"  said  his  mother,  "however  Harold  plays  he 
has  a  way  of  winning." 

"  He  has  a  way  too  of  being  a  hopeless  ass.  What 
I  meant  was  how  he  comes  there  at  all,"  Edward 
explained. 

"Why  as  any  one  comes  —  by  being  invited.  She 
wrote  to  him  —  weeks  ago." 

Brookenham  just  traceably  took  this  in,  but  to 
what  profit  was  not  calculable.  "To  Harold  ?  Very 

69 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

good-natured."  He  had  another  short  reflexion,  after 
which  he  continued:  "If  they  don't  send  he'll  be  in 
for  five  miles  in  a  fly  —  and  the  man  will  see  that  he 
gets  his  money." 

"They  will  send  —  after  her  note." 

"Did  it  say  so?" 

Her  melancholy  eyes  seemed,  from  afar,  to  run 
over  the  page.  "  I  don't  remember  —  but  it  was  so 
cordial." 

Again  he  meditated.  "That  often  does  n't  prevent 
one's  being  let  in  for  ten  shillings." 

There  was  more  gloom  in  this  forecast  than  his 
wife  had  desired  to  produce.  "Well,  my  dear  Edward, 
what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Whatever  a  young  man 
does,  it  seems  to  me,  he's  let  in  for  ten  shillings." 

"Ah  but  he  needn't  be  —  that's  my  point.  7 
was  n't  at  his  age." 

Harold's  mother  took  up  her  book  again.  "  Perhaps 
you  were  n't  the  same  success!  I  mean  at  such  places." 

"Well,  I  did  n't  borrow  money  to  make  me  one 
—  as  I've  a  sharp  idea  our  young  scamp  does." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  hesitated.  "From  whom  do  you 
mean  —  the  Jews  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  her  vagueness  might  be  as 
sumed.  "  No.  They,  I  take  it,  are  not  quite  so  '  cordial ' 
to  him,  since  you  call  it  so,  as  the  old  ladies.  He  gets 
it  from  Mitchy." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Brookenham.  "Are  you  very 
sure?"  she  then  demanded. 

He  had  got  up  and  put  his  empty  cup  back  on  the 
tea-table,  wandering  afterwards  a  little  about  the 
room  and  looking  out,  as  his  wife  had  done  half  an 

70 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

hour  before,  at  the  dreary  rain  and  the  now  duskier 
ugliness.  He  reverted  in  this  attitude,  with  a  complete 
unconsciousness  of  making  for  irritation,  to  an  issue 
they  might  be  supposed  to  have  dropped.  "He'll 
have  a  lovely  drive  for  his  money ! "  His  companion, 
however,  said  nothing  and  he  presently  came  round 
again.  "No,  I'm  not  absolutely  sure  —  of  his  hav 
ing  had  it  from  Mitchy.  If  I  were  I  should  do  some 
thing." 

"What  would  you  do?"  She  put  it  as  if  she 
conld  n't  possibly  imagine. 

"I'd  speak  to  him." 

"To  Harold?" 

"No  —  that  might  just  put  it  into  his  head." 
Brookenham  walked  up  and  down  a  little  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  after  which,  with  a  complete 
concealment  of  the  steps  of  the  transition,  "Where 
are  we  dining  to-night  ? "  he  brought  out. 

"Nowhere,  thank  heaven.  We  grace  our  own 
board." 

"Oh  —  with  those  fellows,  as  you  said,  and  Jane  ? " 

"That's  not  for  dinner.  The  Baggers  and  Mary 
Pinthorpe  and  —  upon  my  word  I  forget." 

"You'll  see  when  she  comes,"  suggested  Brooken 
ham,  who  was  again  at  the  window. 

"It  is  n't  a  she  —  it's  two  or  three  he's,  I  think," 
his  wife  replied  with  her  indifferent  anxiety.  "  But 
I  don't  know  what  dinner  it  is,"  she  bethought  her 
self;  "it  may  be  the  one  that's  after  Easter.  Then 
that  one's  this  one,"  she  added  with  her  eyes  once 
more  on  her  book. 

"Well,  it's  a  relief  to  dine  at  home"  —  and  Brook- 

71 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

enham  faced  about.  "Would  you  mind  finding  out  ?" 
he  asked  with  some  abruptness. 

"Do  you  mean  who's  to  dine  ?" 

"  No,  that  does  n't  matter.  But  whether  Mitchy  has 
come  down." 

"I  can  only  find  out  by  asking  him." 

"Oh  /  could  ask  him."  He  seemed  disappointed  at 
his  wife's  want  of  resource. 

"And  you  don't  want  to  ?" 

He  looked  coldly,  from  before  the  fire,  over  the 
prettiness  of  her  brown  bent  head.  "It  will  be  such 
a  beastly  bore  if  he  admits  it." 

"And  you  think  poor  I  can  make  him  not  admit 
it  ? "  She  put  the  question  as  if  it  were  really  her  own 
thought  too,  but  they  were  a  couple  who  could,  even 
face  to  face  and  unlike  the  augurs  behind  the  altar, 
think  these  things  without  laughing.  "  If  he  should 
admit  it,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  threw  in,  "will  you  give 
me  the  money  ?" 

"The  money?" 

"To  pay  Mitchy  back." 

She  had  now  raised  her  eyes  to  her  husband,  but, 
turning  away,  he  failed  to  meet  them.  "He'll  deny 
it." 

"Well,  if  they  all  deny  it,"  she  presently  remarked, 
"it's  a  simple  enough  matter.  I  'm  sure  /  don't  want 
them  to  come  down  on  us!  But  that's  the  advantage," 
she  almost  prattled  on,  "of  having  so  many  such 
charming  friends.  They  dont  come  down." 

This  again  was  a  remark  of  a  sweep  that  there 
appeared  to  be  nothing  in  Brookenham's  mind  to 
match;  so  that,  scarcely  pausing  in  the  walk  he  had 

72 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

resumed,  he  only  said:  "Who  do  you  mean  by 
'all'?" 

"Why  if  he  has  had  anything  from  Mitchy  I  dare 
say  he  has  had  something  from  Van." 

"Oh!"  Brookenham  returned  as  if  with  a  still 
deeper  drop  of  interest. 

"They  oughtn't  to  do  it,"  she  declared;  "they 
ought  to  tell  us,  and  when  they  don't  it  serves  them 
right."  Even  this  observation,  however,  failed  to 
rouse  in  her  husband  a  response,  and,  as  she  had 
quite  formed  the  habit  of  doing,  she  philosophically 
answered  herself.  "  But  I  don't  suppose  they  do  it  on 
spec." 

It  was  less  apparent  than  ever  what  Edward  sup 
posed.  "Oh  Van  has  n't  money  to  chuck  about." 

"Ah  I  only  mean  a  sovereign  here  and  there." 

"Well,"  Brookenham  threw  out  after  another  turn, 
"I  think  Van,  you  know,  is  your  affair." 

"It  all  seems  to  be  my  affair!"  she  lamented  too 
woefully  to  have  other  than  a  comic  effect.  "And  of 
course  then  it  will  be  still  more  so  if  he  should  begin 
to  apply  to  Mr.  Longdon." 

"We  must  stop  that  in  time." 

"Do  you  mean  by  warning  Mr.  Longdon  and 
requesting  him  immediately  to  tell  us  ?  That  won't 
be  very  pleasant,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  noted. 

"Well  then  wait  and  see." 

She  waited  only  a  minute  —  it  might  have  appeared 
she  already  saw.  "I  want  him  to  be  kind  to  Harold 
and  can't  help  thinking  he  will." 

"  Yes,  but  I  fancy  that  that  will  be  his  notion  of  it 
—  keeping  him  from  making  debts.  I  dare  say  one 

73 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

need  n't  trouble  about  him,"  Brookenham  added. 
"He  can  take  care  of  himself." 

"He  appears  to  have  done  so  pretty  well  all  these 
years,"  she  mused.  "As  I  saw  him  in  my  childhood 
I  see  him  now,  and  I  see  now  that  I  saw  then  even 
how  awfully  in  love  he  was  with  mamma.  He 's  too 
lovely  about  mamma,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  pursued. 

"Oh!"  her  husband  replied. 

The  vivid  past  held  her  a  moment.  "I  see  now 
I  must  have  known  a  lot  as  a  child." 

"Oh!"  her  companion  repeated. 

"I  want  him  to  take  an  interest  in  us.  Above  all  in 
the  children.  He  ought  to  like  us  "  —  she  followed  it 
up.  "  It  will  be  a  sort  of  'poetic  justice/  He  sees  the 
reasons  for  himself  and  we  must  n't  prevent  it."  She 
turned  the  possibilities  over,  but  they  produced  a 
reserve.  "The  thing  is  I  don't  see  how  he  can  like 
Harold." 

"Then  he  won't  lend  him  money,"  said  Brooken 
ham  with  all  his  grimness. 

This  contingency  too  she  considered.  "You  make 
me  feel  as  if  I  wished  he  would  —  which  is  too  dread 
ful.  And  I  don't  think  he  really  likes  me,"  she  went 
on. 

"Oh!"  her  husband  again  ejaculated. 

"I  mean  not  utterly  really.  He  has  to  try  to.  But 
it  won't  make  any  difference,"  she  next  remarked. 

"Do  you  mean  his  trying?" 

"No,  I  mean  his  not  succeeding.  He'll  be  just  the 
same."  She  saw  it  steadily  and  saw  it  whole.  "On 
account  of  mamma." 

Brookenham  also,  with  his  perfect  propriety,  put  it 
74 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

before  himself.  "  And  will  he  —  on  account  of  your 
mother  —  also  like  me?" 

She  weighed  it.  "No,  Edward."  She  covered  him 
with  her  loveliest  expression.  "No,  not  really  either. 
But  it  won't  make  any  difference."  This  time  she 
had  pulled  him  up. 

"  Not  if  he  does  n't  like  Harold  or  like  you  or  like 
me  ? "  Edward  clearly  found  himself  able  to  accept 
only  the  premise. 

"He'll  be  perfectly  loyal.  It  will  be  the  advantage 
of  mamma!"  Mrs.  Brookenham  cried.  "Mamma, 
Edward,"  she  brought  out  with  a  flash  of  solemnity  — 
"mamma  was  wonderful.  There  have  been  times 
when  I've  always  felt  her  still  with  us,  but  Mr. 
Longdon  makes  it  somehow  so  real.  Whether  she's 
with  me  or  not,  at  any  rate,  she's  with  him;  so  that 
when  he 's  with  me,  don't  you  see  —  ? " 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing  ?"  her  husband  intelli 
gently  asked.  "I  see.  And  when  was  he  with  you 
last?" 

"Not  since  the  day  he  dined  —  but  that  was  only 
last  week.  He  '11  come  soon  —  I  know  from  Van." 

"  And  what  does  Van  know  ? " 

"  Oh  all  sorts  of  things.  He  has  taken  the  greatest 
fancy  to  him." 

"The  old  boy  — to  Van?" 

"Van  to  Mr.  Longdon.  And  the  other  way  too. 
Mr.  Longdon  has  been  most  kind  to  him." 

Brookenham  still  moved  about.  "  Well,  if  he  likes 
Van  and  does  n't  like  us,  what  good  will  that  do  us  ?" 

"You'd  understand  soon  enough  if  you  felt  Van's 
loyalty." 

75 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh  the  things  you  expect  me  to  feel,  my  dear!" 
Edward  Brookenham  lightly  moaned. 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  matter.  But  he  is  as  loyal  to  me 
as  Mr.  Longdon  to  mamma." 

The  statement  produced  on  his  part  an  unusual 
vision  of  the  comedy  of  things.  "  Every  Jenny  has 
her  Jockey !"  Yet  perhaps  —  remarkably  enough  — 
there  was  even  more  imagination  in  his  next  words. 
"And  what  sort  of  means  ?" 

"Mr.  Longdon  ?  Oh  very  good.  Mamma  would  n't 
have  been  the  loser.  Not  that  she  cared.  He  must  like 
Nanda,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  wound  up. 

Her  companion  appeared  to  look  at  the  idea  and 
then  meet  it.  "He'll  have  to  see  her  first." 

"Oh  he  shall  see  her!"  she  rang  out.  "It's  time 
for  her  at  any  rate  to  sit  downstairs." 

"It  was  time,  you  know,  I  thought,  a  year  ago." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  thought.    But  it  was  n't." 

She  had  spoken  with  decision,  but  he  seemed  un 
willing  to  concede  the  point.  "  You  allowed  yourself 
she  was  all  ready." 

"She  was  all  ready  —  yes.  But  I  wasn't.  I  am 
now,"  Mrs.  Brookenham,  with  a  fine  emphasis  on 
her  adverb,  proclaimed  as  she  turned  to  meet  the 
opening  of  the  door  and  the  appearance  of  the  butler, 
whose  annotmcement  —  "  Lord  Petherton  and  Mr. 
Mitchett "  —  might  for  an  observer  have  seemed 
immediately  to  offer  support  to  her  changed  state.  • 


IV 


LORD  PETHERTON,  a  man  of  five-and-thirty,  whose 
robust  but  symmetrical  proportions  gave  to  his  dark 
blue  double-breasted  coat  an  air  of  tightness  that  just 
failed  of  compromising  his  tailor,  had  for  his  main 
facial  sign  a  certain  pleasant  brutality,  the  effect 
partly  of  a  bold  handsome  parade  of  carnivorous 
teeth,  partly  of  an  expression  of  nose  suggesting  that 
this  feature  had  paid  a  little,  in  the  heat  of  youth,  for 
some  aggression  at  the  time  admired  and  even  pub 
licly  commemorated.  He  would  have  been  ugly,  he 
substantively  granted,  had  he  not  been  happy;  he 
would  have  been  dangerous  had  he  not  been  war 
ranted.  Many  things  doubtless  performed  for  him 
this  last  service,  but  none  so  much  as  the  delightful 
sound  of  his  voice,  the  voice,  as  it  were,  of  another 
man,  a  nature  reclaimed,  supercivilised,  adjusted  to 
the  perpetual  "chaff"  which  kept  him  smiling  in  a 
way  that  would  have  been  a  mistake  and  indeed  an 
impossibility  if  he  had  really  been  witty.  His  bright 
familiarity  was  that  of  a  young  prince  whose  con 
fidence  had  never  had  to  falter,  and  the  only  thing 
that  at  all  qualified  the  resemblance  was  the  equal 
familiarity  excited  in  his  subjects. 

Mr.  Mitchett  had  so  little  intrinsic  appearance  that 
an  observer  would  have  felt  indebted  for  help  in 
placing  him  to  the  rare  prominence  of  his  colourless 
eyes  and  the  positive  attention  drawn  to  his  chin  by 

77 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

the  precipitation  of  its  retreat  from  discovery.  Dressed 
on  the  other  hand  not  as  gentlemen  dress  in  London 
to  pay  their  respects  to  the  fair,  he  excited  by  the 
exhibition  of  garments  that  had  nothing  in  common 
save  the  violence  and  the  independence  of  their  pat 
tern  a  belief  that  in  the  desperation  of  humility  he 
wished  to  render  public  his  having  thrown  to  the 
winds  the  effort  to  please.  It  was  written  all  over  him 
that  he  had  judged  once  for  all  his  personal  case  and 
that,  as  his  character,  superficially  disposed  to  gaiety, 
deprived  him  of  the  resource  of  shyness  and  shade, 
the  effect  of  comedy  might  not  escape  him  if  secured 
by  a  real  plunge.  There  was  comedy  therefore  in  the 
form  of  his  pot-hat  and  the  colour  of  his  spotted 
shirt,  in  the  systematic  disagreement,  above  all,  of 
his  coat,  waistcoat  and  trousers.  It  was  only  on  long 
acquaintance  that  his  so  many  ingenious  ways  of 
showing  he  appreciated  his  commonness  could  present 
him  as  secretly  rare. 

"And  where 's  the  child  this  time  ?"  he  asked  of  his 
hostess  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  near  her. 

"Why  do  you  say  'this  time'  as  if  it  were  different 
from  any  other  time  ? "  she  replied  as  she  gave  him 
his  tea. 

"  Only  because,  as  the  months  and  the  years  elapse, 
it's  more  and  more  of  a  wonder,  whenever  I  don't  see 
her,  to  think  what  she  does  with  herself  —  or  what 
you  do  with  her.  What  it  does  show,  I  suppose," 
Mr.  Mitchett  went  on,  "is  that  she  takes  no  trouble 
to  meet  me." 

"My  dear  Mitchy,"  said  Mrs.  Brookenham,  "what 
do  you  know  about  *  trouble'  — either  poor  Nanda's 

78 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

or  mine  or  anybody's  else  ?  You  Ve  never  had  to 
take  any  in  your  life,  you're  the  spoiled  child  of  for 
tune  and  you  skim  over  the  surface  of  things  in  a  way 
that  seems  often  to  represent  you  as  supposing  every 
body  else  has  wings.  Most  other  people  are  sticking 
fast  in  their  native  mud." 

"Mud,  Mrs.  Brook — mud,  mud!"  he  protestingly 
cried  as,  while  he  watched  his  fellow  visitor  move  to 
a  distance  with  their  host,  he  glanced  about  the  room, 
taking  in  afresh  the  Louis  Seize  secretary  which 
looked  better  closed  than  open  and  for  which  he 
always  had  a  knowing  eye.  "Remarkably  charming 
mud!" 

"Well,  that's  what  a  great  deal  of  the  element  really 
appears  to-day  to  be  thought;  and  precisely  as  a  speci 
men,  Mitchy  dear,  those  two  French  books  you  were 
so  good  as  to  send  me  and  which  —  really  this  time, 
you  extraordinary  man!"  She  fell  back,  intimately 
reproachful,  from  the  effect  produced  on  her,  re 
nouncing  all  expression  save  that  of  the  rolled  eye. 

"  Why,  were  they  particularly  dreadful  ? "  —  Mitchy 
was  honestly  surprised.  "I  rather  liked  the  one  in  the 
pink  cover  —  what 's  the  confounded  thing  called  ? 
—  I  thought  it  had  a  sort  of  a  something-or-other." 
He  had  cast  his  eye  about  as  if  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
forgotten  title,  and  she  caught  the  question  as  he 
vaguely  and  good-humouredly  dropped  it. 

"A  kind  of  a  morbid  modernity  ?  There  is  that," 
she  dimly  conceded. 

"Is  that  what  they  call  it?  Awfully  good  name. 
You  must  have  got  it  from  old  Van ! "  he  gaily  de 
clared. 

79 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  dare  say  I  did.  I  get  the  good  things  from  him 
and  the  bad  ones  from  you.  But  you  're  not  to  sup 
pose,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  went  on,  "that  I've  dis 
cussed  your  horrible  book  with  him." 

"Come,  I  say!"  Mr.  Mitchett  protested;  "I've 
seen  you  with  books  from  Vanderbank  which  if  you 
have  discussed  them  with  him  —  well,"  he  laughed, 
"I  should  like  to  have  been  there!" 

"You  have  n't  seen  me  with  anything  like  yours  — 
no,  no,  never,  never!"  She  was  particularly  positive. 
"Van  on  the  contrary  gives  tremendous  warnings, 
makes  apologies,  in  advance,  for  things  that  —  well, 
after  all,  have  n't  killed  one." 

"That  have  even  perhaps  a  little,  after  the  warn 
ings,  let  one  down  ?" 

She  took  no  notice  of  this  coarse  pleasantry,  she 
simply  adhered  to  her  thesis.  "One  has  taken  one's 
dose  and  one  is  n't  such  a  fool  as  to  be  deaf  to  some 
fresh  true  note  if  it  happens  to  turn  up.  But  for  ab 
ject  horrid  unredeemed  vileness  from  beginning  to 
end  —  " 

"So  you  read  to  the  end?"  Mr.  Mitchett  inter 
posed. 

"I  read  to  see  what  you  could  possibly  have  sent 
such  things  to  me  for,  and  because  so  long  as  they 
were  in  my  hands  they  were  not  in  the  hands  of  others. 
Please  to  remember  in  future  that  the  children  are  all 
over  the  place  and  that  Harold  and  Nanda  have  their 
nose  in  everything." 

"I  promise  to  remember,"  Mr.  Mitchett  returned, 
"as  soon  as  you  make  old  Van  do  the  same." 

"  I  do  make  old  Van  —  I  pull  old  Van  up  much 
80 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

oftener  than  I  succeed  in  pulling  you.  I  must  say," 
Mrs.  Brookenham  went  on,  "you're  all  getting  to 
require  among  you  in  general  an  amount  of  what  one 
may  call  editing! "  She  gave  one  of  her  droll  universal 
sighs.  "I've  got  your  books  at  any  rate  locked  up 
and  I  wish  you'd  send  for  them  quickly  again;  one's 
too  nervous  about  anything  happening  and  their  being 
perhaps  found  among  one's  relics.  Charming  literary 
remains!'*  she  laughed. 

The  friendly  Mitchy  was  also  much  amused.  "  By 
Jove,  the  most  awful  things  are  found!  Have  you 
heard  about  old  Randage  and  what  his  executors  have 
just  come  across  ?  The  most  abominable  — " 

"I  haven't  heard,"  she  broke  in,  "and  I  don't 
want  to ;  but  you  give  me  a  shudder  and  I  beg  you  '11 
have  your  offerings  removed,  since  I  can't  think  of 
confiding  them  for  the  purpose  to  any  one  in  this 
house.  I  might  burn  them  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 
but  even  then  I  should  be  fearfully  nervous." 

"  I  '11  send  then  my  usual  messenger,"  said  Mitchy, 
"  a  person  I  keep  for  such  jobs,  thoroughly  seasoned, 
as  you  may  imagine,  and  of  a  discretion  —  what  do 
you  call  it  ?  —  a  toute  epreuve.  Only  you  must  let  me 
say  that  I  like  your  terror  about  Harold!  Do  you 
think  he  spends  his  time  over  Dr.  Watts's  hymns  ? " 

Mrs.  Brookenham  just  hesitated,  and  nothing,  in 
general,  was  so  becoming  to  her  as  the  act  of  hesita 
tion.  "Dear  Mitchy,  do  you  know  I  want  awfully  to 
talk  to  you  about  Harold  ?" 

"About  his  French  reading,  Mrs.  Brook  ?"  Mitchy 
responded  with  interest.  "The  worse  things  are,  let 
me  just  mention  to  you  about  that,  the  better  they 

81 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

seem  positively  to  be  for  one's  feeling  up  in  the  lan 
guage.  They're  more  difficult,  the  bad  ones  —  and 
there's  a  lot  in  that.  All  the  young  men  know  it  — 
those  who  are  going  up  for  exams." 

She  had  her  eyes  for  a  little  on  Lord  Petherton  and 
her  husband;  then  as  if  she  had  not  heard  what  her 
interlocutor  had  just  said  she  overcame  her  last 
scruple.  "Dear  Mitchy,  has  he  had  money  from 
you?" 

He  stared  with  his  good  goggle  eyes  —  he  laughed 
out.  "Why  on  earth  —  ?  But  do  you  suppose  I'd 
tell  you  if  he  had  ? " 

"  He  has  n't  really  borrowed  the  most  dreadful 
sums  ?" 

Mitchy  was  highly  diverted.  "Why  should  he? 
For  what,  please  ? " 

" That 's  just  it  —  for  what  ?  What  does  he  do  with 
it  all  ?  What  in  the  world  becomes  of  it  ? " 

"Well,"  Mitchy  suggested,  "he's  saving  up  to 
start  a  business.  Harold's  irreproachable  —  hasn't 
a  vice.  Who  knows  in  these  days  what  may  happen  ? 
He  sees  further  than  any  young  man  I  know.  Do  let 
him  save." 

She  looked  far  away  with  her  sweet  world-weari 
ness.  "  If  you  were  n't  an  angel  it  would  be  a  horror 
to  be  talking  to  you.  But  I  insist  on  knowing."  She 
insisted  now  with  her  absurdly  pathetic  eyes  on  him. 
"What  kind  of  sums?" 

"You  shall  never,  never  find  out  —  not  if  you  were 
never  to  speak  to  me  again,"  Mr.  Mitchett  replied 
with  extravagant  firmness.  "Harold's  one  of  my 
great  amusements  —  I  really  have  awfully  few;  and 

82 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

if  you  deprive  me  of  him  you'll  be  a  fiend.  There  are 
only  one  or  two  things  I  want  to  live  for,  but  one  of 
them  is  to  see  how  far  Harold  will  go.  Please  give  me 
some  more  tea." 

"Do  you  positively  swear  ?"  she  asked  with  intens 
ity  as  she  helped  him.  Then  without  waiting  for  his 
answer:  "You  have  the  common  charity  to  us,  I  sup 
pose,  to  see  the  position  you  'd  put  us  in.  Fancy 
Edward ! "  she  quite  austerely  threw  off. 

Mr.  Mitchett,  at  this,  had  on  his  side  a  wonder. 
"Does  Edward  imagine  —  ?" 

"My  dear  man,  Edward  never  'imagined'  any 
thing  in  life."  She  still  had  her  eyes  on  him. 
"Therefore  if  he  sees  a  thing,  don't  you  know  ?  it  must 
exist." 

Mitchy  for  a  little  fixed  the  person  mentioned  as  he 
sat  with  his  other  guest,  but  whatever  this  person  saw 
he  failed  just  then  to  see  his  wife's  companion,  whose 
eyes  he  never  met.  His  face  only  offered  itself  after 
the  fashion  of  a  clean  domestic  vessel,  a  receptacle 
with  the  peculiar  property  of  constantly  serving  yet 
never  filling,  to  Lord  Petherton's  talkative  splash. 
"Well,  only  don't  let  him  take  it  up.  Let  it  be  only 
between  you  and  me,"  Mr.  Mitchett  pleaded;  "keep 
him  quiet  —  don't  let  him  speak  to  me."  He  ap 
peared  to  convey  with  his  pleasant  extravagance  that 
Edward  looked  dangerous,  and  he  went  on  with  a 
rigour  of  levity:  "It  must  be  our  little  quarrel." 

There  were  different  ways  of  meeting  such  a  tone, 
but  Mrs.  Brookenham's  choice  was  remarkably 
prompt.  "I  don't  think  I  quite  understand  what 
dreadful  joke  you  may  be  making,  but  I  dare  say  if 

83 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

you  had  let  Harold  borrow  you  'd  have  another 
manner,  and  I  was  at  any  rate  determined  to  have 
the  question  out  with  you." 

"  Let  us  always  have  everything  out  —  that 's  quite 
my  own  idea.  It's  you,"  said  Mr.  Mitchett,  "who 
are  by  no  means  always  so  frank  with  me  as  I  re 
cognise —  oh,  I  do  that!  —  what  it  must  have  cost 
you  to  be  over  this  little  question  of  Harold.  There 's 
one  thing,  Mrs.  Brook,  you  do  dodge." 

"What  do  I  ever  dodge,  dear  Mitchy?"  Mrs. 
Brook  quite  tenderly  asked. 

"  Why,  when  I  ask  you  about  your  other  child  you  're 
off  like  a  frightened  fawn.  When  have  you  ever,  on  my 
doing  so,  said  'My  darling  Mitchy,  I'll  ring  for  her 
to  be  asked  to  come  down  so  that  you  can  see  her  for 
yourself  —  when  have  you  ever  said  anything  like 
that?" 

"I  see,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  mused;  "you  think  I 
sacrifice  her.  You  're  very  interesting  among  you  all, 
and  I've  certainly  a  delightful  circle.  The  Duchess 
has  just  been  letting  me  have  it  most  remarkably  hot, 
and  as  she 's  presently  coming  back  you  '11  be  able  to 
join  forces  with  her." 

Mitchy  looked  a  little  at  a  loss.  "On  the  subject  of 
your  sacrifice  — " 

"  Of  my  innocent  and  helpless,  yet  somehow  at  the 
same  time,  as  a  consequence  of  my  cynicism,  dread 
fully  damaged  and  depraved  daughter."  She  took  in 
for  an  instant  the  slight  bewilderment  against  which, 
as  a  result  of  her  speech,  even  so  expert  an  intelligence 
as  Mr.  Mitchett's  had  not  been  proof;  then  with  a 
small  jerk  of  her  head  at  the  other  side  of  the  room 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

made  the  quickest  of  transitions.  "What  is  there 
between  her  and  him?" 

Mitchy  wondered  at  the  other  two.  "Between 
Edward  and  the  girl  ?"  , 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  Between  Petherton  and 
Jane." 

Mitchy  could  only  stare,  and  the  wide  noonday 
light  of  his  regard  was  at  such  moments  really  the 
redemption  of  his  ugliness.  "What  'is*  there?  Is 
there  anything  ? " 

"It's  too  beautiful,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  appre 
ciatively  sighed,  "your  relation  with  him !  You  won't 
compromise  him." 

"  It  would  be  nicer  of  me,"  Mitchy  laughed,  "  not 
to  want  to  compromise  her." 

"Oh  Jane!"  Mrs.  Brookenham  dropped.  "Does 
he  like  her?"  she  continued.  "You  must  know." 

"Ah  it's  just  my  knowing  that  constitutes  the 
beauty  of  my  loyalty  —  of  my  delicacy."  He  had  his 
quick  jumps  too.  "Am  I  never,  never  to  see  the 
child?" 

This  enquiry  appeared  only  to  confirm  his  friend 
in  the  view  of  what  was  touching  in  him.  "You're 
the  most  delicate  thing  I  know,  and  it  crops  up  with 
effect  the  oddest  in  the  intervals  of  your  corruption. 
Your  talk's  half  the  time  impossible;  you  respect 
neither  age  nor  sex  nor  condition ;  one  does  n't  know 
what  you'll  say  or  do  next;  and  one  has  to  return 
your  books  —  ce st  tout  dire  —  under  cover  of  darkness. 
Yet  there 's  in  the  midst  of  all  this  and  in  the  gen 
eral  abyss  of  you  a  little  deepdown  delicious  niceness, 
a  sweet  sensibility,  that  one  has  actually  one's  self, 

85 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

shocked  as  one  perpetually  is  at  you,  quite  to  hold 
one's  breath  and  stay  one's  hand  for  fear  of  ruffling 
or  bruising.  There 's  no  one  in  talk  with  whom,"  she 
balmily  continued,  "I  find  myself  half  so  often  sud 
denly  moved  to  pull  up  short.  You've  more  little 
toes  to  tread  on  —  though  you  pretend  you  have  n't: 
I  mean  morally  speaking,  don't  you  know  ?  —  than 
even  I  have  myself,  and  I've  so  many  that  I  could 
wish  most  of  them  cut  off.  You  never  spare  me 
a  shock  —  no,  you  don't  do  that:  it  isn't  the  form 
your  delicacy  takes.  But  you  '11  know  what  I  mean, 
all  the  same,  I  think,  when  I  tell  you  that  there  are 
lots  I  spare  you!" 

Mr.  Mitchett  fairly  glowed  with  the  candour  of  his 
attention.  "  Know  what  you  mean,  dearest  lady  ? 
How  can  a  man  handicapped  to  death,  a  man  of  my 
origin,  my  appearance,  my  general  weaknesses, 
drawbacks,  immense  indebtedness,  all  round,  for  the 
start,  as  it  were,  that  I  feel  my  friends  have  been  so 
good  as  to  allow  me :  how  can  such  a  man  not  be  con 
scious  every  moment  that  every  one  about  him  goes 
on  tiptoe  and  winks  at  every  one  else  ?  What  can  you 
all  mention  in  my  presence,  poor  things,  that  is  n't 
personal  ? " 

Mrs.  Brookenham's  face  covered  him  for  an  instant 
as  no  painted  Madonna's  had  ever  covered  the  little 
charge  at  the  breast  beneath  it.  "And  the  finest  thing 
of  all  in  you  is  your  beautiful,  beautiful  pride!  You  're 
prouder  than  all  of  us  put  together."  She  checked  a 
motion  that  he  had  apparently  meant  as  a  protest  — 
she  went  on  with  her  muffled  wisdom.  "There  is  n't 
a  man  but  you  whom  Petherton  would  n't  have  made 

86 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

vulgar.  He  isn't  vulgar  himself — at  least  not  ex 
ceptionally;  but  he's  just  one  of  those  people,  a  class 
one  knows  well,  who  are  so  fearfully,  in  this  country, 
the  cause  of  it  in  others.  For  all  I  know  he 's  the  cause 
of  it  in  me  —  the  cause  of  it  even  in  poor  Edward. 
For  I'm  vulgar,  Mitchy  dear  —  very  often;  and  the 
marvel  of  you  is  thaC  you  never  are." 

"Thank  you  for  everything.  Thank  you  above  all 
for  *  marvel'!"  Mitchy  grinned. 

"Oh  I  know  what  I  say!"  —  she  didn't  in  the 
least  blush.  "I'll  tell  you  something,"  she  pursued 
with  the  same  gravity,  "if  you'll  promise  to  tell  no 
one  on  earth.  If  you're  proud  I'm  not.  There!  It's 
most  extraordinary  and  I  try  to  conceal  it  even  to 
myself;  but  there's  no  doubt  whatever  about  it  — 
I  'm  not  proud  pour  deux  sous.  And  some  day,  on  some 
awful  occasion,  I  shall  show  it.  So  —  I  notify  you. 
Shall  you  love  me  still  ?" 

"To  the  bitter  end,"  Mitchy  loyally  responded. 
"  For  how  can,  how  need,  a  woman  be  *  proud '  who 's 
so  preternaturally  clever  ?  Pride 's  only  for  use  when 
wit  breaks  down  —  it 's  the  train  the  cyclist  takes 
when  his  tire's  deflated.  When  that  happens  to  your 
tire,  Mrs.  Brook,  you'll  let  me  know.  And  you  do 
make  me  wonder  just  now,"  he  confessed,  "why 
you  're  taking  such  particular  precautions  and  throw 
ing  out  such  a  cloud  of  skirmishers.  If  you  want  to 
shoot  me  dead  a  single  bullet  will  do."  He  faltered 
but  an  instant  before  completing  his  sense.  "Where 
you  really  want  to  come  out  is  at  the  fact  that  Nanda 
loathes  me  and  that  I  might  as  well  give  up  asking 
for  her." 

87 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Are  you  quite  serious?"  his  companion  after  a 
moment  resumed.  "  Do  you  really  and  truly  like  her, 
Mitchy?" 

"I  like  her  as  much  as  I  dare  to  —  as  much  as 
a  man  can  like  a  girl  when  from  the  very  first  of  his 
seeing  her  and  judging  her  he  has  also  seen,  and  seen 
with  all  the  reasons,  that  there's  no  chance  for  him 
whatever.  Of  course,  with  all  that,  he  has  done  his 
best  not  to  let  himself  go.  But  there  are  moments," 
Mr.  Mitchett  ruefully  added,  "when  it  would  relieve 
him  awfully  to  feel  free  for  a  good  spin." 

"I  think  you  exaggerate,"  his  hostess  replied,  "the 
difficulties  in  your  way.  What  do  you  mean  by  '  all  the 
reasons'  ?" 

"Why  one  of  them  I  Ve  already  mentioned.  I  make 
her  flesh  creep." 

"My  own  Mitchy!"  Mrs.  Brookenham  protest- 
ingly  moaned. 

"  The  other  is  that  —  very  naturally  —  she 's  in 
love." 

"With  whom  under  the  sun  ?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  had,  with  her  startled  stare, 
met  his  eyes  long  enough  to  have  taken  something 
from  him  before  he  next  spoke.  "You  really  have 
never  suspected  ?  With  whom  conceivably  but  old 
Van?" 

"Nanda's  in  love  with  old  Van?" — the  degree 
to  which  she  had  never  suspected  was  scarce  to  be 
expressed.  "Why  he's  twice  her  age  —  he  has  seen 
her  in  a  pinafore  with  a  dirty  face  and  well  slapped 
for  it :  he  has  never  thought  of  her  in  the  world." 

"How  can  a  person  of  your  acuteness,  my  dear 
88 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

woman,"  Mitchy  asked,  "mention  such  trifles  as 
having  the  least  to  do  with  the  case  ?  How  can  you 
possibly  have  such  a  fellow  about,  so  beastly  good- 
looking,  so  infernally  well  turned  out  in  the  way  of 
'culture,'  and  so  bringing  them  down  in  short  on 
every  side,  and  expect  in  the  bosom  of  your  family 
the  absence  of  history  of  the  reigns  of  the  good 
kings  ?  If  you  were  a  girl  would  n't  you  turn  purple  ? 
If  I  were  a  girl  should  n't  I  —  unless,  as  is  more 
likely,  I  turned  green  ? " 

Mrs.  Brookenham  was  deeply  affected.  "Nanda 
does  turn  purple  —  ?" 

"The  loveliest  shade  you  ever  saw.  It's  too  absurd 
that  you  have  n't  noticed." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Brookenham's  ami 
ability  that,  with  her  sudden  sense  of  the  importance 
of  this  new  light,  she  should  be  quite  ready  to  abase 
herself.  "There  are  so  many  things  in  one's  life.  One 
follows  false  scents.  One  does  n't  make  out  every 
thing  at  once.  If  you're  right  you  must  help  me.  We 
must  see  more  of  her." 

"But  what  good  will  that  do  me?"  Mitchy  ap 
pealed. 

"Don't  you  care  enough  for  her  to  want  to  help 
her?"  Then  before  he  could  speak,  "Poor  little  darl 
ing  dear!"  his  hostess  tenderly  ejaculated.  "What 
does  she  think  or  dream  ?  Truly  she 's  laying  up 
treasure!" 

"  Oh  he  likes  her,"  said  Mitchy.  "  He  likes  her  in 
fact  extremely." 

"Do  you  mean  he  has  told  you  so  ?" 

"Oh  no  —  we  never  mention  it !  But  he  likes  her," 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mr.  Mitchett  stubbornly  repeated.  "And  he's  thor 
oughly  straight." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  for  a  moment  turned  these  things 
over;  after  which  she  came  out  in  a  manner  that 
visibly  surprised  him.  "It  is  n't  as  if  you  wished  to  be 
nasty  about  him,  is  it  ?  —  because  I  know  you  like  him 
yourself.  You  're  so  wonderful  to  your  friends  "  — 
oh  she  could  let  him  see  that  she  knew!  —  "and  in 
such  different  and  exquisite  ways.  There  are  those 
like  him"  —  she  signified  her  other  visitor  —  "who 
get  everything  out  of  you  and  whom  you  really  ap 
pear  fond  of,  or  at  least  to  put  up  with,  just  for  that. 
Then  there  are  those  who  ask  nothing  —  and  whom 
you  're  fond  of  in  spite  of  it." 

Mitchy  leaned  back  from  this,  fist  within  fist, 
watching  her  with  a  certain  disguised  emotion.  He 
grinned  almost  too  much  for  mere  amusement. 
"That's  the  class  to  which  you  belong." 

"It's  the  best  one,"  she  returned,  "and  I'm  care 
ful  to  remain  in  it.  You  try  to  get  us,  by  bribery, 
into  the  inferior  place,  because,  proud  as  you  are,  it 
bores  you  a  little  that  you  like  us  so  much.  But  we 
won't  go  —  at  least  7  won't.  You  may  make  Van," 
she  wonderfully  continued.  "There's  nothing  you 
would  n't  do  for  him  or  give  him."  Mitchy  admired 
her  from  his  position,  slowly  shaking  his  head  with  it. 
"  He 's  the  man  —  with  no  fortune  and  just  as  he  is, 
to  the  smallest  particular  —  whom  you  would  have 
liked  to  be,  whom  you  intensely  envy,  and  yet  to 
whom  you're  magnanimous  enough  for  almost  any 
sacrifice." 

Mitchy's  appreciation  had  fairly  deepened  to  a 
90 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

flush.  "Magnificent,  magnificent  Mrs.  Brook!  What 
are  you  in  thunder  up  to  ?" 

"Therefore,  as  I  say,"  she  imperturbably  went  on, 
"it's  not  to  do  him  an  ill  turn  that  you  make  a  point 
of  what  you  've  just  told  me." 

Mr.  Mitchett  for  a  minute  gave  no  sign  but  his 
high  colour  and  his  queer  glare.  "How  could  it  do 
him  an  ill  turn  ?" 

"  Oh  it  would  be  a  way,  don't  you  see  ?  to  put  before 
me  the  need  of  getting  rid  of  him.  For  he  may  'like' 
Nanda  as  much  as  you  please:  he'll  never,  never," 
Mrs.  Brookenham  resolutely  quavered  —  "  he  '11  never 
come  to  the  scratch.  And  to  feel  that  as  /  do,"  she 
explained,  "  can  only  be,  don't  you  also  see  ?  to  want 
to  save  her." 

It  would  have  appeared  at  last  that  poor  Mitchy 
did  see.  "  By  taking  it  in  time  ?  By  forbidding  him 
the  house  ? " 

She  seemed  to  stand  with  little  nipping  scissors  in  a 
garden  of  alternatives.  "  Or  by  shipping  her  off.  Will 
you  help  me  to  save  her  ?"  she  broke  out  again  after 
a  moment.  "It  is  n't  true,"  she  continued,  "that  she 
has  any  aversion  to  you." 

"  Have  you  charged  her  with  it  ? "  Mitchy  demanded 
with  a  courage  that  amounted  to  high  gallantry. 

It  inspired  on  the  spot  his  interlocutress,  and  her 
own  pluck,  of  as  fine  a  quality  now  as  her  diplomacy, 
which  was  saying  much,  fell  but  little  below.  "Yes, 
my  dear  friend  —  frankly." 

"Good.    Then  I  know  what  she  said." 

"She  absolutely  denied  it." 

"  Oh  yes  —  they  always  do,  because  they  pity  me," 

91 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mitchy  smiled.  "She  said  what  they  always  say  — 
that  the  effect  I  produce  is,  though  at  first  upsetting, 
one  that  little  by  little  they  find  it  possible  to  get 
used  to.  The  world 's  full  of  people  who  are  getting 
used  to  me,"  Mr.  Mitchett  concluded. 

"It's  what  /  shall  never  do,  for  you're  quite  too 
great  a  luxury!"  Mrs.  Brookenham  declared.  "If  I 
have  n't  threshed  you  out  really  more  with  Nanda," 
she  continued,  "it  has  been  from  a  scruple  of  a  sort 
you  people  never  do  a  woman  the  justice  to  impute. 
You  're  the  object  of  views  that  have  so  much  more 
to  set  them  off." 

Mr.  Mitchett  on  this  jumped  up;  he  was  clearly 
conscious  of  his  nerves ;  he  fidgeted  away  a  few  steps 
and  then,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  fixed  on  his  host 
ess  a  countenance  more  controlled.  "What  does  the 
Duchess  mean  by  your  daughter's  being  —  as  I  under 
stood  you  to  quote  her  just  now  —  'damaged  and 
depraved ' ? " 

Mrs.  Brookenham  came  up  —  she  literally  rose  — 
smiling.  "You  fit  the  cap.  You  know  how  she 'd  like 
you  for  little  Aggie!" 

"What  does  she  mean,  what  does  she  mean?" 
Mitchy  repeated. 

The  door,  as  he  spoke,  was  thrown  open;  Mrs. 
Brookenham  glanced  round.  "You've  the  chance 
to  find  out  from  herself!"  The  Duchess  had  come 
back  and  little  Aggie  was  in  her  wake. 


THAT  young  lady,  in  this  relation,  was  certainly  a 
figure  to  have  offered  a  foundation  for  the  highest 
hopes.  As  slight  and  white,  as  delicately  lovely,  as  a 
gathered  garden  lily,  her  admirable  training  appeared 
to  hold  her  out  to  them  all  as  with  precautionary 
finger-tips.  She  presumed,  however,  so  little  on  any 
introduction  that,  shyly  and  submissively,  waiting 
for  the  word  of  direction,  she  stopped  short  in  the 
centre  of  the  general  friendliness  till  Mrs.  Brooken- 
ham  fairly  became,  to  meet  her,  also  a  shy  little  girl 
—  put  out  a  timid  hand  with  wonder-struck  innocent 
eyes  that  hesitated  whether  a  kiss  of  greeting  might 
be  dared.  "Why  you  dear  good  strange  'ickle'  thing, 
you  have  n't  been  here  for  ages,  but  it  is  a  joy  to  see 
you  and  I  do  hope  you  've  brought  your  doll ! "  — 
such  might  have  been  the  sense  of  our  friend's  fond 
murmur  while,  looking  at  her  up  and  down  with  pure 
pleasure,  she  drew  the  rare  creature  to  a  sofa.  Little 
Aggie  presented,  up  and  down,  an  arrangement  of 
dress  exactly  in  the  key  of  her  age,  her  complexion, 
her  emphasised  virginity.  She  might  have  been  pre 
pared  for  her  visit  by  a  cluster  of  doting  nuns,  clois 
tered  daughters  of  ancient  houses  and  educators  of 
similar  products,  whose  taste,  hereditarily  good,  had 
grown,  out  of  the  world  and  most  delightfully,  so  queer 
as  to  leave  on  everything  they  touched  a  particular 
shade  of  distinction.  The  Duchess  had  brought  in 

93 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

with  the  child  an  air  of  added  confidence  for  which 
an  observer  would  in  a  moment  have  seen  the  grounds, 
the  association  of  the  pair  being  so  markedly  favour 
able  to  each.  Its  younger  member  carried  out  the 
style  of  her  aunt's  presence  quite  as  one  of  the  access 
ory  figures  effectively  thrown  into  old  portraits.  The 
Duchess  on  the  other  hand  seemed,  with  becoming 
blandness,  to  draw  from  her  niece  the  dignity  of  a 
kind  of  office  of  state  —  hereditary  governess  of  the 
children  of  the  blood.  Little  Aggie  had  a  smile  as 
softly  bright  as  a  Southern  dawn,  and  the  friends  of 
her  relative  looked  at  each  other,  according  to  a  fash 
ion  frequent  in  Mrs.  Brookenham's  drawing-room, 
in  free  exchange  of  their  happy  impression.  Mr. 
Mitchett  was  none  the  less  scantly  diverted  from  his 
estimate  of  the  occasion  Mrs.  Brookenham  had  just 
named  to  him. 

"My  dear  Duchess,"  he  promptly  asked,  "do  you 
mind  explaining  to  me  an  opinion  I've  just  heard  of 
your  —  with  marked  originality  —  holding  ? " 

The  Duchess,  her  head  all  in  the  air,  considered  an 
instant  her  little  ivory  princess.  "  I  'm  always  ready, 
Mr.  Mitchett,  to  defend  my  opinions ;  but  if  it 's  a 
question  of  going  much  into  the  things  that  are  the 
subjects  of  some  of  them  perhaps  we  had  better,  if 
you  don't  mind,  choose  our  time  and  our  place." 

"No  'time,'  gracious  lady,  for  my  impatience," 
Mr.  Mitchett  replied,  "could  be  better  than  the 
present  —  but  if  you  've  reasons  for  wanting  a  better 
place  why  should  n't  we  go  on  the  spot  into  another 
room?" 

Lord  Petherton,  at  this  enquiry,  broke  into  instant 
94 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

mirth.  "Well,  of  all  the  coolness,  Mitchy!  —  he  does 
go  at  it,  does  n't  he,  Mrs.  Brook  ?  What  do  you  want 
to  do  in  another  room  ?"  he  demanded  of  his  friend. 
"  Upon  my  word,  Duchess,  under  the  nose  of  those  —  " 

The  Duchess,  on  the  first  blush,  lent  herself  to  the 
humour  of  the  case.  "  Well,  Petherton,  of '  those '  ?  — 
I  defy  him  to  finish  his  sentence!"  she  smiled  to  the 
others. 

"Of  those,"  said  his  lordship,  "who  flatter  them 
selves  that  when  you  do  happen  to  find  them  some 
where  your  first  idea  is  not  quite  to  jump  at  a  pretext 
for  getting  off  somewhere  else.  Especially,"  he  con 
tinued  to  jest,  "with  a  man  of  Mitchy's  vile  reputa 
tion." 

"Oh!"  Edward  Brookenham  exclaimed  at  this,  but 
only  as  with  quiet  relief. 

"Mitchy's  offer  is  perfectly  safe,  I  may  let  him 
know,"  his  wife  remarked,  "for  I  happen  to  be  sure 
that  nothing  would  really  induce  Jane  to  leave  Aggie 
five  minutes  among  us  here  without  remaining  herself 
to  see  that  we  don't  become  improper." 

"Well  then  if  we're  already  pretty  far  on  the  way  to 
it,"  Lord  Petherton  resumed,  "what  on  earth  might 
we  arrive  at  in  the  absence  of  your  control  ?  I  warn 
you,  Duchess,"  he  joyously  pursued,  "that  if  you  go 
out  of  the  room  with  Mitchy  I  shall  rapidly  become 
quite  awful." 

The  Duchess  during  this  brief  passage  never  took 
her  eyes  from  her  niece,  who  rewarded  her  attention 
with  the  sweetness  of  consenting  dependence.  The 
child's  foreign  origin  was  so  delicately  but  unmis- 
takeably  written  in  all  her  exquisite  lines  that  her 

95 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

look  might  have  expressed  the  modest  detachment  of 
a  person  to  whom  the  language  of  her  companions 
was  unknown.  Her  protectress  then  glanced  round 
the  circle.  "  You  're  very  odd  people  all  of  you,  and 
,  I  don't  think  you  quite  know  how  ridiculous  you  are. 
Aggie  and  I  are  simple  stranger-folk;  there's  a  great 
deal  we  don't  understand,  yet  we're  none  the  less  not 
easily  frightened.  In  what  is  it,  Mr.  Mitchett,"  the 
Duchess  asked,  "that  I've  wounded  your  suscept 
ibilities  ? " 

Mr.  Mitchett  cast  about ;  he  had  apparently  found 
time  to  reflect  on  his  precipitation.  "I  see  what 
Petherton  's  up  to,  and  I  won't,  by  drawing  you  aside 
just  now,  expose  your  niece  to  anything  that  might 
immediately  oblige  Mrs.  Brook  to  catch  her  up  and 
flee  with  her.  But  the  first  time  I  find  you  more 
isolated  —  well,"  he  laughed,  though  not  with  the 
clearest  ring,  "all  I  can  say  is  Mind  your  eyes  dear 
Duchess!" 

"It's  about  your  thinking,  Jane,"  Mrs.  Brooken- 
ham  placidly  explained,  "that  Nanda  suffers  —  in  her 
morals,  don't  you  know  ?  —  by  my  neglect.  I  would 
n't  say  anything  about  you  that  I  can't  bravely  say  to 
you ;  therefore  since  he  has  plumped  out  with  it  I  do 
confess  that  I've  appealed  to  him  on  what,  as  so 
good  an  old  friend,  he  thinks  of  your  contention." 

"What  in  the  world  is  Jane's  contention?"  Ed 
ward  Brookenham  put  the  question  as  if  they  were 
"stuck"  at  cards. 

"You  really  all  of  you,"  the  Duchess  replied  with 
excellent  coolness,  "choose  extraordinary  conditions 
for  the  discussion  of  delicate  matters.  There  are 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

decidedly  too  many  things  on  which  we  don't  feel 
alike.  You're  all  inconceivable  just  now.  Je  ne 
peux  pourtant  pas  la  mettre  a  la  porte,  cette  cherie"  — 
whom  she  covered  again  with  the  gay  solicitude  that 
seemed  to  have  in  it  a  vibration  of  private  entreaty : 
"Don't  understand,  my  own  darling  —  don't  under 
stand!" 

Little  Aggie  looked  about  with  an  impartial  polite 
ness  that,  as  an  expression  of  the  general  blind  sense 
of  her  being  as  to  every  particular  in  hands  at  full 
liberty  either  to  spot  or  to  spare  her,  was  touching 
enough  to  bring  tears  to  all  eyes.  It  perhaps  had  to 
do  with  the  sudden  emotion  with  which  —  using 
now  quite  a  different  manner  —  Mrs.  Brookenham 
again  embraced  her,  and  even  with  this  lady's  equally 
abrupt  and  altogether  wonderful  address  to  her :  "  Be 
tween  you  and  me  straight,  my  dear,  and  as  from 
friend  to  friend,  I  know  you  '11  never  doubt  that  every 
thing  must  be  all  right !  —  What  I  spoke  of  to  poor 
Mitchy,"  she  went  on  to  the  Duchess,  "is  the  dread 
ful  view  you  take  of  my  letting  Nanda  go  to  Tishy 
—  and  indeed  of  the  general  question  of  any  acquaint 
ance  between  young  unmarried  and  young  married 
females.  Mr.  Mitchett's  sufficiently  interested  in  us, 
Jane,  to  make  it  natural  of  me  to  take  him  into  our 
confidence  in  one  of  our  difficulties.  On  the  other 
hand  we  feel  your  solicitude,  and  I  need  n't  tell  you 
at  this  time  of  day  what  weight  in  every  respect  we 
attach  to  your  judgement.  Therefore  it  will  be  a  diffi 
culty  for  us,  cara  mia,  don't  you  see  ?  if  we  decide 
suddenly,  under  the  spell  of  your  influence,  that  our 
daughter  must  break  off  a  friendship  —  it  will  be  a 

97 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

difficulty  for  us  to  put  the  thing  to  Nanda  herself  in 
such  a  way  as  that  she  shall  have  some  sort  of  notion 
of  what  suddenly  possesses  us.  Then  there'll  be  the 
much  stiffer  job  of  putting  it  to  poor  Tishy.  Yet  if 
her  house  is  an  impossible  place  what  else  is  one  to 
do  ?  Carrie  Donner  's  to  be  there,  and  Carrie  Don 
ner 's  a  nature  apart;  but  how  can  we  ask  even  a  little 
lamb  like  Tishy  to  give  up  her  own  sister  ? " 

The  question  had  been  launched  with  an  argu 
mentative  sharpness  that  made  it  for  a  moment  keep 
possession  of  the  air,  and  during  this  moment,  before 
a  single  member  of  the  circle  could  rally,  Mrs.  Brook- 
enham's  effect  was  superseded  by  that  of  the  reap 
pearance  of  the  butler.  "  I  say,  my  dear,  don't  shriek ! " 
—  Edward  Brookenham  had  only  time  to  sound  this 
warning  before  a  lady,  presenting  herself  in  the  open 
doorway,  followed  close  on  the  announcement  of  her 
name.  "Mrs.  Beach  Donner!" — the  impression  was 
naturally  marked.  Every  one  betrayed  it  a  little  but 
Mrs.  Brookenham,  who,  more  than  the  others,  ap 
peared  to  have  the  help  of  seeing  that  by  a  merciful 
stroke  her  visitor  had  just  failed  to  hear.  This  visitor, 
a  young  woman  of  striking,  of  startling  appearance, 
who,  in  the  manner  of  certain  shiny  house-doors  and 
railings,  instantly  created  a  presumption  of  the  lurk 
ing  label  "Fresh  paint,"  found  herself,  with  an  em 
barrassment  oddly  opposed  to  the  positive  pitch  of 
her  complexion,  in  the  presence  of  a  group  in  which  it 
was  yet  immediately  evident  that  every  one  was  a 
friend.  Every  one,  to  show  no  one  had  been  caught, 
said  something  extremely  easy ;  so  that  it  was  after  a 
moment  only  poor  Mrs.  Donner  who,  seated  close  to 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

her  hostess,  seemed  to  be  in  any  degree  in  the  wrong. 
This  moreover  was  essentially  her  fault,  so  extreme 
was  the  anomaly  of  her  having,  without  the  means  to 
back  it  up,  committed  herself  to  a  "scheme  of  colour" 
that  was  practically  an  advertisement  of  courage. 
Irregularly  pretty  and  painfully  shy,  she  was  re 
touched  from  brow  to  chin  like  a  suburban  photo 
graph  —  the  moral  of  which  was  simply  that  she 
should  either  have  left  more  to  nature  or  taken  more 
from  art.  The  Duchess  had  quickly  reached  her  kins 
man  with  a  smothered  hiss,  an  "Edward  dear,  for 
God's  sake  take  Aggie!"  and  at  the  end  of  a  few 
minutes  had  formed  for  herself  in  one  of  Mrs.  Brook- 
enham's  admirable  "corners"  a  society  consisting  of 
Lord  Petherton  and  Mr.  Mitchett,  the  latter  of  whom 
regarded  Mrs.  Donner  across  the  room  with  articulate 
wonder  and  compassion. 

"  It 's  all  right,  it 's  all  right  —  she 's  frightened 
only  at  herself!" 

The  Duchess  watched  her  as  from  a  box  at  the  play, 
comfortably  shut  in,  as  in  the  old  operatic  days  at 
Naples,  with  a  pair  of  entertainers.  "You're  the  most 
interesting  nation  in  the  world.  One  never  gets  to  the 
end  of  your  hatred  of  the  nuance.  The  sense  of  the 
suitable,  the  harmony  of  parts  —  what  on  earth  were 
you  doomed  to  do  that,  to  be  punished  sufficiently  in 
advance,  you  had  to  be  deprived  of  it  in  your  very 
cradles  ?  Look  at  her  little  black  dress  —  rather  good, 
but  not  so  good  as  it  ought  to  be,  and,  mixed  up  with 
all  the  rest,  see  her  type,  her  beauty,  her  timidity,  her 
wickedness,  her  notoriety  and  her  impudeur.  It's  only 
in  this  country  that  a  woman  is  both  so  shocking  and 

99 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

so  shaky."  The  Duchess's  displeasure  overflowed. 
"If  she  does  n't  know  how  to  be  good  — " 

"Let  her  at  least  know  how  to  be  bad?  Ah," 
Mitchy  replied,  "your  irritation  testifies  more  than 
anything  else  could  do  to  our  peculiar  genius  or  our 
peculiar  want  of  it.  Our  vice  is  intolerably  clumsy  — 
if  it  can  possibly  be  a  question  of  vice  in  regard  to  that 
charming  child,  who  looks  like  one  of  the  new-fash 
ioned  bill-posters,  only,  in  the  way  of  '  morbid  mod 
ernity,'  as  Mrs.  Brook  would  say,  more  extravagant 
and  funny  than  any  that  have  yet  been  risked.  I  re 
member,"  he  continued,  "Mrs.  Brook's  having 
spoken  of  her  to  me  lately  as  'wild.'  Wild  ?  —  why, 
she 's  simply  tameness  run  to  seed.  Such  an  expression 
shows  the  state  of  training  to  which  Mrs.  Brook  has 
reduced  the  rest  of  us." 

"It  doesn't  prevent  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Brook's 
training,  some  of  the  rest  of  you  from  being  horrible," 
the  Duchess  declared.  "What  did  you  mean  just 
now,  really,  by  asking  me  to  explain  before  Aggie  this  so 
serious  matter  of  Nanda's  exposure  ?"  Then  instantly 
taking  herself  up  before  Mr.  Mitchett  could  answer: 
"What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  Edward's  saying  to 
my  darling?" 

Brookenham  had  placed  himself,  side  by  side  with 
the  child,  on  a  distant  little  settee,  but  it  was  impos 
sible  to  make  out  from  the  countenance  of  either  if  a 
sound  had  passed  between  them.  Aggie's  little  man 
ner  was  too  developed  to  show,  and  her  host's  not 
developed  enough.  "Oh  he's  awfully  careful,"  Lord 
Petherton  reassuringly  observed.  "If  you  or  I  or 
Mitchy  say  anything  bad  it's  sure  to  be  before  we 

100 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

know  it  and  without  particularly  meaning  it.  But  old 
Edward  means  it  — " 

"So  much  that  as  a  general  thing  he  does  n't  dare  to 
say  it  ? "  the  Duchess  asked.  "That's  a  pretty  picture 
of  him,  inasmuch  as  for  the  most  part  he  never  speaks. 
What  therefore  must  he  mean?" 

"  He 's  an  abyss  —  he 's  magnificent! "  Mr.  Mitchett 
laughed.  "I  don't  know  a  man  of  an  understanding 
more  profound,  and  he's  equally  incapable  of  utter 
ing  and  of  wincing.  If  by  the  same  token  I  'm  *  hor 
rible,'  as  you  call  me,"  he  pursued,  "it's  only  be 
cause  I  'm  in  every  way  so  beastly  superficial.  All 
the  same  I  do  sometimes  go  into  things,  and  I  insist 
on  knowing,"  he  again  broke  out,  "what  it  exactly 
was  you  had  in  mind  in  saying  to  Mrs.  Brook  the 
things  about  Nanda  and  myself  that  she  repeated  to 
me." 

"You  'insist,'  you  silly  man  ?"  —  the  Duchess  had 
veered  a  little  to  indulgence.  "  Pray  on  what  ground 
of  right,  in  such  a  connexion,  do  you  do  anything  of 
the  sort?" 

Poor  Mitchy  showed  but  for  a  moment  that  he  felt 
pulled  up.  "Do  you  mean  that  when  a  girl  liked  by 
a  fellow  likes  him  so  little  in  return  —  ? " 

"I  don't  mean  anything,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that 
may  provoke  you  to  suppose  me  vulgar  and  odious 
enough  to  try  to  put  you  out  of  conceit  of  a  most 
interesting  and  unfortunate  creature;  and  I  don't 
quite  as  yet  see  —  though  I  dare  say  I  shall  soon 
make  out!  — what  our  friend  has  in  her  head  in  tat 
tling  to  you  on  these  matters  as  soon  as  my  back's 
turned.  Petherton  will  tell  you  —  I  wonder  he  has  n't 

101 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

told  you  before  —  why  Mrs.  Grendon,  though  not 
perhaps  herself  quite  the  rose,  is  decidedly  in  these 
days  too  near  it." 

"  Oh  Petherton  never  tells  me  anything ! "  Mitchy's 
answer  was  brisk  and  impatient,  but  evidently  quite 
as  sincere  as  if  the  person  alluded  to  had  not  been 
there. 

The  person  alluded  to  meanwhile,  fidgeting  frankly 
in  his  chair,  alternately  stretching  his  legs  and  resting 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  had  reckoned  as  small  the 
profit  he  might  derive  from  this  colloquy.  His  bored 
state  indeed  —  if  he  was  bored  —  prompted  in  him 
the  honest  impulse  to  clear,  as  he  would  have  perhaps 
considered  it,  the  atmosphere.  He  indicated  Mrs. 
Conner  with  a  remarkable  absence  of  precautions. 
"Why,  what  the  Duchess  alludes  to  is  my  poor  sister 
Fanny's  stupid  grievance  —  surely  you  know  about 
that."  He  made  oddly  vivid  for  a  moment  the  nature 
of  his  relative's  allegation,  his  somewhat  cynical 
treatment  of  which  became  peculiarly  derisive  in  the 
light  of  the  attitude  and  expression,  at  that  minute, 
of  the  figure  incriminated.  "My  brother-in-law's  too 
thick  with  her.  But  Cashmore  's  such  a  fine  old  ass. 
It's  excessively  unpleasant,"  he  added,  "for  affairs 
are  just  in  that  position  in  which,  from  one  day  to 
another,  there  may  be  something  that  people  will  get 
hold  of.  Fancy  a  man,"  he  robustly  reflected  while 
the  three  took  in  more  completely  the  subject  of  Mrs. 
Brookenham's  attention  —  "fancy  a  man  with  that 
odd  piece  on  his  hands !  The  beauty  of  it  is  that  the 
two  women  seem  never  to  have  broken  ofF.  Blest  if 
they  don't  still  keep  seeing  each  other!" 

102 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

The  Duchess,  as  on  everything  else,  passed  suc 
cinctly  on  this.  "Ah  how  can  hatreds  comfortably 
flourish  without  the  nourishment  of  such  regular 
*  seeing*  as  what  you  call  here  bosom  friendship  alone 
supplies  ?  What  are  parties  given  for  in  London  but 
that  enemies  may  meet  ?  I  grant  you  it 's  inconceivable 
that  the  husband  of  a  superb  creature  like  your  sister 
should  find  his  requirements  better  met  by  an  object 
comme  cette  petite,  who  looks  like  a  pen-wiper  —  an 
actress's  idea  of  one  —  made  up  for  a  theatrical 
bazaar.  At  the  same  time,  if  you  '11  allow  me  to  say 
so,  it  scarcely  strikes  one  that  your  sister's  prudence 
is  such  as  to  have  placed  all  the  cards  in  her  hands. 
She's  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  England,  but  her 
esprit  de  conduite  is  n't  quite  on  a  level.  One  can't 
have  everything!"  she  philosophically  sighed. 

Lord  Petherton  met  her  comfortably  enough  on 
this  assumption  of  his  detachments.  "  If  you  mean 
by  that  her  being  the  biggest  fool  alive  I'm  quite 
ready  to  agree  with  you.  It's  exactly  what  makes  me 
afraid.  Yet  how  can  I  decently  say  in  especial,"  he 
asked,  "of  what?" 

The  Duchess  still  perched  on  her  critical  height. 
"Of  what  but  one  of  your  amazing  English  periodical 
public  washings  of  dirty  linen  ?  There 's  not  the  least 
necessity  to  'say'!"  she  laughed.  "If  there's  any 
thing  more  remarkable  than  these  purifications  it's 
the  domestic  comfort  with  which,  when  all  has  come 
and  gone,  you  sport  the  articles  purified." 

"It  comes  back,  in  all  that  sphere,"  Mr.  Mitchett 
instructively  opined,  "to  our  national,  our  fatal  want 
of  style.  We  can  never,  dear  Duchess,  take  too  many 

103 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

lessons,  and  there's  probably  at  the  present  time 
no  more  useful  function  to  be  performed  among  us 
than  that  dissemination  of  neater  methods  to  which 
you're  so  good  as  to  contribute." 

He  had  had  another  idea,  but  before  he  reached  it 
his  companion  had  gaily  broken  in.  "Awfully  good 
one  for  you,  Duchess  —  and  I  'm  bound  to  say  that, 
for  a  clever  woman,  you  exposed  yourself !  I  've  at  any 
rate  a  sense  of  comfort,"  Lord  Petherton  pursued, 
"in  the  good  relations  now  more  and  more  established 
between  poor  Fanny  and  Mrs.  Brook.  Mrs.  Brook 's 
awfully  kind  to  her  and  awfully  sharp,  and  Fanny 
will  take  things  from  her  that  she  won't  take  from  me. 
I  keep  saying  to  Mrs.  Brook  —  don't  you  know  ?  — 
'Do  keep  hold  of  her  and  let  her  have  it  strong.'  She 
has  n't,  upon  my  honour,  any  one  in  the  world  but 
me." 

"And  we  know  the  extent  of  that  resource!"  the 
Duchess  freely  commented. 

"  That 's  exactly  what  Fanny  says  —  that  she  knows 
it,"  Petherton  good-humouredly  agreed.  "She  says 
my  beastly  hypocrisy  makes  her  sick.  There  are 
people,"  he  pleasantly  rambled  on,  "who  are  awfully 
free  with  their  advice,  but  it's  mostly  fearful  rot. 
Mrs.  Brook's  is  n't,  upon  my  word  —  I  Ve  tried  some 
myself!" 

"You  talk  as  if  it  were  something  nasty  and  home 
made —  gooseberry  wine!"  the  Duchess  laughed; 
"  but  one  can't  know  the  dear  soul,  of  course,  without 
knowing  that  she  has  set  up,  for  the  convenience  of  her 
friends,  a  little  office  for  consultations.  She  listens  to 
the  case,  she  strokes  her  chin  and  prescribes  — " 

104 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

"And  the  beauty  of  it  is,"  cried  Lord  Petherton, 
"that  she  makes  no  charge  whatever!" 

"She  does  n't  take  a  guinea  at  the  time,  but  you 
may  still  get  your  account,"  the  Duchess  returned. 
"  Of  course  we  know  that  the  great  business  she  does 
is  in  husbands  and  wives." 

"This  then  seems  the  day  of  the  wives!"  Mr. 
Mitchett  interposed  as  he  became  aware,  the  first,  of 
the  illustration  the  Duchess's  image  was  in  the  act 
of  receiving.  "  Lady  Fanny  Cashmore! "  —  the  butler 
was  already  in  the  field,  and  the  company,  with  the 
exception  of  Mrs.  Donner,  who  remained  seated,  was 
apparently  conscious  of  a  vibration  that  brought  it 
afresh,  but  still  more  nimbly  than  on  Aggie's  advent, 
to  its  feet. 


VI 


"Go  to  her  straight  —  be  nice  to  her:  you  must  have 
plenty  to  say.  You  stay  with  me  —  we  have  our  af 
fair."  The  latter  of  these  commands  the  Duchess 
addressed  to  Mr.  Mitchett,  while  their  companion,  in 
obedience  to  the  former  and  affected,  as  it  seemed,  by 
an  unrepressed  familiar  accent  that  stirred  a  fresh 
flicker  of  Mitchy's  grin,  met  the  new  arrival  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  before  Mrs.  Brookenham  had  had 
time  to  reach  her.  The  Duchess,  quickly  reseated, 
watched  an  instant  the  inexpressive  concussion  of  the 
tall  brother  and  sister;  then  while  Mitchy  again  sub 
sided  into  his  place,  "You're  not,  as  a  race,  clever, 
you're  not  delicate,  you're  not  sane,  but  you're 
capable  of  extraordinary  good  looks,"  she  resumed. 
"  Vous  avez  parfois  la  grande  beaute." 

Mitchy  was  much  amused.  "Do  you  really  think 
Petherton  has  ?" 

The  Duchess  withstood  it.  "They've  got,  both  out 
side  and  in,  the  same  great  general  things,  only  turned, 
in  each,  rather  different  ways,  a  way  safer  for  him  as 
a  man,  and  more  triumphant  for  her  as  —  whatever 
you  choose  to  call  her!  What  can  a  woman  do,"  she 
richly  mused,  "with  such  beauty  as  that  —  ?" 

"Except  come  desperately  to  advise  with  Mrs. 
Brook  "  —  Mitchy  undertook  to  complete  her  ques 
tion  —  "  as  to  the  highest  use  to  make  of  it  ?  But 
see,"  he  immediately  added,  "how  perfectly  compe- 

106 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

tent  to  instruct  her  our  friend  now  looks."  Their 
hostess  had  advanced  to  Lady  Fanny  with  an  out 
stretched  hand  but  with  an  eagerness  of  greeting 
merged  a  little  in  the  sweet  predominance  of  wonder 
as  well  as  in  the  habit,  at  such  moments  most  per 
ceptible,  of  the  languid  lily-bend.  Nothing  in  general 
could  have  been  less  conventionally  poor  than  the 
kind  of  reception  given  in  Mrs.  Brookenham's  draw 
ing-room  to  the  particular  element  —  the  element  of 
physical  splendour  void  of  those  disparities  that  make 
the  question  of  others  tiresome — comprised  in  Lady 
Fanny's  presence.  It  was  a  place  in  which,  at  all  times, 
before  interesting  objects,  the  unanimous  occupants, 
almost  more  concerned  for  each  other's  vibrations 
than  for  anything  else,  were  apt  rather  more  to  ex 
change  sharp  and  silent  searchings  than  to  fix  their 
eyes  on  the  object  itself.  In  the  case  of  Lady  Fanny, 
however,  the  object  itself — and  quite  by  the  same 
law  that  had  worked,  though  less  profoundly,  on 
the  entrance  of  little  Aggie  —  superseded  the  usual 
rapt  communion  very  much  in  the  manner  of  some 
beautiful  tame  tigress  who  might  really  coerce  atten 
tion.  There  was  in  Mrs.  Brookenham's  way  of  look 
ing  up  at  her  a  dim  despairing  abandonment  of  the 
idea  of  any  common  personal  ground.  Lady  Fanny, 
magnificent,  simple,  stupid,  had  almost  the  stature  of 
her  brother,  a  forehead  unsurpassably  low  and  an 
air  of  sombre  concentration  just  sufficiently  corrected 
by  something  in  her  movements  that  failed  to  give  it 
a  point.  Her  blue  eyes  were  heavy  in  spite  of  being 
perhaps  a  couple  of  shades  too  clear,  and  the  wealth 
of  her  black  hair,  the  disposition  of  the  massive  coils 

107 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

of  which  was  all  her  own,  had  possibly  a  satin  sheen 
depreciated  by  the  current  fashion.  But  the  great 
thing  in  her  was  that  she  was,  with  unconscious 
heroism,  thoroughly  herself;  and  what  were  Mrs. 
Brook  and  Mrs.  Brook's  intimates  after  all,  in  their 
free  surrender  to  the  play  of  perception,  but  a  happy 
association  for  keeping  her  so  ?  The  Duchess  was 
moved  to  the  liveliest  admiration  by  the  grand  simple 
sweetness  of  her  encounter  with  Mrs.  Donner,  a  com 
bination  indeed  in  which  it  was  a  question  if  she  or 
Mrs.  Brook  appeared  to  the  higher  advantage.  It 
was  poor  Mrs.  Donner  —  not,  like  Mrs.  Brook,  subtle 
in  sufficiency,  nor,  like  Lady  Fanny,  almost  too  sim 
ple  —  who  made  the  poorest  show.  The  Duchess 
immediately  marked  it  to  Mitchy  as  infinitely  charac 
teristic  that  their  hostess,  instead  of  letting  one  of  her 
visitors  go,  kept  them  together  by  some  sweet  ingenu 
ity  and  while  Lord  Petherton,  dropping  his  sister, 
joined  Edward  and  Aggie  in  the  other  angle,  sat 
there  between  them  as  if,  in  pursuance  of  some  awfully 
clever  line  of  her  own,  she  were  holding  a  hand  of 
each.  Mr.  Mitchett  of  course  did  justice  all  round, 
or  at  least,  as  would  have  seemed  from  an  enquiry  he 
presently  made,  wished  not  to  fail  of  it.  "  Is  it  your 
real  impression  then  that  Lady  Fanny  has  serious 
grounds  —  ?" 

"  For  jealousy  of  that  preposterous  little  person  ? 
My  dear  Mitchett,"  the  Duchess  resumed  after  a 
moment's  reflexion,  "if  you're  so  rash  as  to  ask  me 
in  any  of  these  connexions  for  my  'real'  impression 
you  deserve  whatever  you  may  get."  The  penalty 
Mitchy  had  incurred  was  apparently  grave  enough  to 

108 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

make  his  companion  just  falter  in  the  infliction  of  it ; 
which  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  replying  that  the 
little  person  was  perhaps  not  more  preposterous  than 
any  one  else,  that  there  was  something  in  her  he  rather 
liked,  and  that  there  were  many  different  ways  in 
which  a  woman  could  be  interesting.  This  further 
levity  it  was  therefore  that  laid  him  fully  open.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say  you've  been  living  with  Petherton 
so  long  without  becoming  aware  that  he's  shockingly 
worried  ? " 

"My  dear  Duchess,"  Mitchy  smiled,  "Petherton 
carries  his  worries  with  a  bravery!  They're  so  many 
that  I've  long  since  ceased  to  count  them;  and  in 
general  I've  been  disposed  to  let  those  pass  that  I 
can't  help  him  to  meet.  You  've  made,  I  judge,"  he 
went  on,  "a  better  use  of  opportunities  perhaps  not 
so  good  —  such  as  at  any  rate  enables  you  to  see 
further  than  I  into  the  meaning  of  the  impatience 
he  just  now  expressed." 

The  Duchess  was  admirable,  in  conversation,  for 
neglecting  everything  not  essential  to  her  present 
plausibility.  "A  woman  like  Lady  Fanny  can  have 
no  '  grounds '  for  anything  —  for  any  indignation,  I 
mean,  or  for  any  revenge  worth  twopence.  In  this 
particular  case  at  all  events  they've  been  sacrificed 
with  such  extravagance  that,  as  an  injured  wife,  she 
has  n't  had  the  gumption  to  keep  back  an  inch  or  two 
to  stand  on.  She  can  do  absolutely  nothing." 

"Then  you  take  the  view  —  ?"  Mitchy,  who  had, 
after  all,  his  delicacies,  pulled  up  as  at  sight  of  a  name. 

"  I  take  the  view,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  and  I  know 
exactly  why.  Elle  se  les  passe  —  her  little  fancies ! 

109 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

She  s  a  phenomenon,  poor  dear.  And  all  with  — 
what  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  the  absence  of  haunting  re 
morse  of  a  good  house-mother  who  makes  the  family 
accounts  balance.  She  looks  —  and  it 's  what  they 
love  her  for  here  when  they  say  'Watch  her  now!'  — 
like  an  angry  saint;  but  she's  neither  a  saint  nor,  to 
be  perfectly  fair  to  her,  really  angry  at  all.  She  has 
only  just  enough  reflexion  to  make  out  that  it  may 
some  day  be  a  little  better  for  her  that  her  husband 
shall,  on  his  side  too,  have  committed  himself;  and 
she's  only,  in  secret,  too  pleased  to  be  sure  whom  it 
has  been  with.  All  the  same  I  must  tell  you,"  the 
Duchess  still  more  crisply  added,  "that  our  little 
friend  Nanda  is  of  the  opinion  — which  I  gather  her 
to  be  quite  ready  to  defend  —  that  Lady  Fanny 's 
wrong." 

Poor  Mitchy  found  himself  staring.  "  But  what  has 
our  little  friend  Nanda  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"What  indeed,  bless  her  heart?  If  you  will  ask 
questions,  however,  you  must  take,  as  I  say,  your 
risks.  There  are  days  when  between  you  all  you 
stupefy  me.  One  of  them  was  when  I  happened 
about  a  month  ago  to  make  some  allusion  to  the 
charming  example  of  Mr.  Cashmore's  fine  taste  that 
we  have  there  before  us :  what  was  my  surprise  at  the 
tone  taken  by  Mrs.  Brook  to  deny  on  this  little  lady's 
behalf  the  soft  impeachment  ?  It  was  quite  a  mistake 
that  anything  had  happened  —  Mrs.  Donner  had 
pulled  through  unscathed.  She  had  been  but  a  day 
or  two  at  the  most  in  danger,  for  her  family  and 
friends  —  the  best  influences  —  had  rallied  to  her 
support:  the  flurry  was  all  over.  She  wras  now  per- 

no 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

fectly  safe.  Do  you  think  she  looks  so  ? "  the  Duchess 
asked. 

This  was  not  a  point  that  Mitchy  was  conscious  of 
freedom  of  mind  to  examine.  "Do  I  understand  you 
that  Nanda  was  her  mother's  authority  —  ? " 

"For  the  exact  shade  of  the  intimacy  of  the  two 
friends  and  the  state  of  Mrs.  Brook's  information  ? 
Precisely  —  it  was  'the  latest  before  going  to  press/ 
'Our  own  correspondent'  !  Her  mother  quoted  her." 

Mr.  Mitchett  visibly  wondered.  "  But  how  should 
Nanda  know  —  ?" 

"Anything  about  the  matter  ?  How  should  she  not 
know  everything  ?  You  've  not,  I  suppose,  lost  sight 
of  the  fact  that  this  lady  and  Mrs.  Grendon  are  sisters. 
Carrie's  situation  and  Carrie's  perils  are  naturally 
very  present  to  the  extremely  unoccupied  Tishy,  who 
is  unhappily  married  into  the  bargain,  who  has  no 
children,  and  whose  house,  as  you  may  imagine,  has 
a  good  thick  atmosphere  of  partisanship.  So,  as  with 
Nanda,  on  her  side,  there's  no  more  absorbing  in 
terest  than  her  dear  friend  Tishy,  with  whom  she's 
at  present  staying  and  under  whose  roof  she  per 
petually  meets  this  victim  of  unjust  aspersions  — !" 

"  I  see  the  whole  thing  from  here,  you  imply  ? " 
Mr.  Mitchett,  under  the  influence  of  this  rapid  evo 
cation,  had  already  taken  his  line.  "Well,"  he  said 
bravely,  "  Nanda 's  not  a  fool." 

A  momentary  silence  on  the  part  of  the  Duchess 
might  have  been  her  tribute  to  his  courage.  "No.  I 
don't  agree  with  her,  as  it  happens,  here;  but  that 
there  are  matters  as  to  which  she 's  not  in  general  at 
all  befogged  is  exactly  the  worst  I  ever  said  of  her. 

ill 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

And  I  hold  that  in  putting  it  so  —  on  the  basis  of  my 
little  anecdote  —  you  clearly  give  out  that  you  're 
answered." 

Mitchy  turned  it  over.    "Answered  ?" 

"In  the  quarrel  that  a  while  back  you  sought  to 
pick  with  me.  What  I  touched  on  to  her  mother  was 
the  peculiar  range  of  aspects  and  interests  she's  com 
pelled  to  cultivate  by  the  special  intimacies  that  Mrs. 
Brook  permits  her.  There  they  are  —  and  that's  all 
I  said.  Judge  them  for  yourself." 

The  Duchess  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  which  was 
also  what  Mrs.  Donner  and  Mrs.  Brookenham  had 
done;  and  Mr.  Mitchett  was  on  his  feet  as  well,  to 
act  on  this  last  admonition.  Mrs.  Donner  was  taking 
leave,  and  there  occurred  among  the  three  ladies  in 
connexion  with  the  circumstance  a  somewhat  striking 
exchange  of  endearments.  Mr.  Mitchett,  observing 
this,  expressed  himself  suddenly  as  diverted.  "By 
Jove,  they're  kissing  —  she's  in  Lady  Fanny's 
arms!"  But  his  hilarity  was  still  to  deepen.  "And 
Lady  Fanny,  by  Jove,  is  in  Mrs.  Brook's!" 

"Oh  it's  all  beyond  me!"  the  Duchess  cried;  and 
the  little  wail  of  her  baffled  imagination  had  almost  the 
austerity  of  a  complaint. 

"Not  a  bit  —  they're  all  right.  Mrs.  Brook  has 
acted ! "  Mitchy  went  on. 

"Ah  it  is  n't  that  she  does  n't  'act'!"  his  interlocu 
tress  ejaculated. 

Mrs.  Donner's  face  presented,  as  she  now  crossed 
the  room,  something  that  resembled  the  ravage  of  a 
death-struggle  between  its  artificial  and  its  natural 
elegance.  "Well,"  Mitchy  said  with  decision  as  he 

112 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

caught  it  —  "I  back  Nanda."  And  while  a  whiff  of 
derision  reached  him  from  the  Duchess,  "Nothing 
has  happened !"  he  murmured. 

As  to  reward  him  for  an  indulgence  that  she  must 
much  more  have  divined  than  overheard  the  visitor 
approached  him  with  her  sweet  bravery  of  alarm.  "I 
go  on  Thursday  to  my  sister's,  where  I  shall  find 
Nanda  Brookenham.  Can  I  take  her  any  message 
from  you  ?" 

Mr.  Mitchett  showed  a  rosiness  that  might  posi 
tively  have  been  reflected.  "Why  should  you  dream 
of  her  expecting  one  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  Duchess  with  a  cheer  that  but  half 
carried  off  her  asperity,  "  Mrs.  Brook  must  have  told 
Mrs.  Donner  to  ask  you!" 

The  latter  lady,  at  this,  rested  strange  eyes  on  the 
speaker,  and  they  had  perhaps  something  to  do  with 
a  quick  flare  of  Mitchy's  wit.  "Tell  her,  please  —  if, 
as  I  suppose,  you  came  here  to  ask  the  same  of  her 
mother — that  I  adore  her  still  more  for  keeping  in 
such  happy  relations  with  you  as  enable  me  thus  to 
meet  you." 

Mrs.  Donner,  overwhelmed,  took  flight  with  a  nerv 
ous  laugh,  leaving  Mr.  Mitchett  and  the  Duchess 
still  confronted.  Nothing  had  passed  between  the 
two  ladies,  yet  it  was  as  if  there  were  a  trace  of  some 
thing  in  the  eyes  of  the  elder,  which,  during  a  mo 
ment's  silence,  moved  from  the  retreating  visitor,  now 
formally  taken  over  at  the  door  by  Edward  Brooken 
ham,  to  Lady  Fanny  and  her  hostess,  who,  in  spite 
of  the  embraces  just  performed,  had  again  subsided 
together  while  Mrs.  Brook  gazed  up  in  exalted  in- 

"3 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

telligence.  "It's  a  funny  house,"  said  the  Duchess 
at  last.  "She  makes  me  such  a  scene  over  my  not 
bringing  Aggie,  and  still  more  over  my  very  faint  hint 
of  my  reasons  for  it,  that  I  fly  off,  in  compunction, 
to  do  what  I  can,  on  the  spot,  to  repair  my  excess  of 
prudence.  I  reappear,  panting,  with  my  niece  —  and 
it  's  to  this  company  I  introduce  her!" 

Her  companion  looked  at  the  charming  child,  to 
whom  Lord  Petherton  was  talking  with  evident  kind 
ness  and  gaiety  —  a  conjunction  that  evidently  ex 
cited  Mitchy's  interest.  "May  we  then  know  her?" 
he  asked  with  an  effect  of  drollery.  "  May  I  —  if  he 
may?" 

The  Duchess's  eyes,  turned  to  him,  had  taken  an 
other  light.  He  even  gaped  a  little  at  their  expression, 
which  was  in  a  manner  carried  out  by  her  tone.  "Go 
and  talk  to  her,  you  perverse  creature,  and  send  him 
over  to  me."  Lord  Petherton,  a  minute  later,  had 
joined  her;  old  Edward  had  left  the  room  with  Mrs. 
Donner;  his  wife  and  Lady  Fanny  were  still  more 
closely  engaged;  and  the  young  Agnesina,  though  vis 
ibly  a  little  scared  at  Mitchy's  queer  countenance,  had 
begun,  after  the  fashion  he  had  touched  on  to  Mrs. 
Brook,  politely  to  invoke  the  aid  of  the  idea  of  habit. 
"Look  here — you  must  help  me,"  the  Duchess  said 
to  Petherton.  "You  can,  perfectly  —  and  it's  the 
first  thing  I  've  yet  asked  of  you. " 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  her  interlocutor  laughed. 

"  I  must  have  Mitchy,"  she  went  on  without  notic 
ing  his  particular  shade  of  humour. 

"  Mitchy  too  ? "  —  he  appeared  to  wish  to  leave  her 
in  no  doubt  of  it. 

114 


LITTLE  AGGIE 

"How  low  you  are !"  she  simply  said.  "There  are 
times  when  I  despair  of  you.  He's  in  every  way  your 
superior,  and  I  like  him  so  that  —  well,  he  must  like 
her.  Make  him  feel  that  he  does." 

Lord  Petherton  turned  it  over  as  something  put  to 
him  practically.  "  I  could  wish  for  him  that  he  would. 
I  see  in  her  possibilities  — !"  he  continued  to  laugh. 

"I  dare  say  you  do.  /  see  them  in  Mitchett,  and 
I  trust  you  '11  understand  me  when  I  say  I  appeal  to 
you." 

"Appeal  to  him  straight.  That's  much  better," 
Petherton  lucidly  observed. 

The  Duchess  wore  for  a  moment  her  proudest  air, 
which  made  her,  in  the  connexion,  exceptionally 
gentle.  "  He  does  n't  like  me." 

Her  interlocutor  looked  at  her  with  all  his  bright 
brutality.  "Oh  my  dear,  I  can  speak  for  you  —  if 
that's  what  you  want!" 

The  Duchess  met  his  eyes,  and  so  for  an  instant 
they  sounded  each  other.  "You're  so  abysmally 
coarse  that  I  often  wonder  — !"  But  as  the  door  re 
opened  she  caught  herself.  It  was  the  effect  of  a  face 
apparently  directed  at  her.  "Be  quiet.  Here's  old 
Edward." 


BOOK  THIRD 
MR.  LONGDON 


IF  Mitchy  arrived  exactly  at  the  hour  it  was  quite  by 
design  and  on  a  calculation  —  over  and  above  the 
prized  little  pleasure  it  might  give  him  —  of  ten 
minutes  clear  with  his  host,  whom  it  rarely  befell  him 
to  see  alone.  He  had  a  theory  of  something  special  to 
go  into,  of  a  plummet  to  sink  or  a  feeler  to  put  forth; 
his  state  of  mind  in  short  was  diplomatic  and  anxious. 
But  his  hopes  had  a  drop  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
His  precaution  had  only  assured  him  the  company  of 
a  stranger,  for  the  person  in  the  room  to  whom  the 
servant  announced  him  was  not  old  Van.  On  the  other 
hand  this  gentleman  would  clearly  be  old — what  was 
it  ?  the  fellow  Vanderbank  had  made  it  a  matter  of 
such  importance  he  should  "  really  know."  But  were 
they  then  simply  to  have  tea  there  together  ?  No ; 
the  candidate  for  Mr.  Mitchett's  acquaintance,  as  if 
quickly  guessing  his  apprehension,  mentioned  on  the 
spot  that  their  entertainer  would  be  with  them:  he 
had  just  come  home  in  a  hurry,  fearing  he  was  late, 
and  then  had  rushed  off  to  make  a  change.  "For 
tunately,"  said  the  speaker,  who  offered  his  explana 
tion  as  if  he  had  had  it  on  his  mind  —  "  fortunately 
the  ladies  have  n't  yet  come." 

"  Oh  there  are  to  be  ladies  ?"  —  Mr.  Mitchett  was 
all  response. 

His  fellow  guest,  who  was  shy  and  apparently 
nervous,  sidled  about  a  little,  swinging  an  eye-glass, 

119 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

yet  glancing  in  a  manner  a  trifle  birdlike  from  object 
to  object.  "Mrs.  Edward  Brookenham  I  think." 

"Oh!"  Mitchy  himself  felt,  as  soon  as  this  com 
ment  had  quitted  his  lips,  that  it  might  sound  even 
to  a  stranger  like  a  sign,  such  as  the  votaries  of  Mrs. 
Edward  Brookenham  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  con 
stantly  throwing  off,  that  he  recognised  her  hand  in 
the  matter.  There  was,  however,  something  in  his 
entertainer's  face  that  somehow  encouraged  frank 
ness  ;  it  had  the  sociability  of  surprise  —  it  had  n't 
the  chill.  Mitchy  saw  at  the  same  time  that  this  friend 
of  old  Van's  would  never  really  understand  him; 
though  that  was  a  thing  he  at  times  liked  people  as 
much  for  as  he  liked  them  little  for  it  at  others.  It 
was  in  fact  when  he  most  liked  that  he  was  on  the 
whole  most  tempted  to  mystify.  "Only  Mrs.  Brook  ? 
—  no  others  ? " 

"'Mrs.  Brook*  ?"  his  elder  echoed;  staring  an  in 
stant  as  if  literally  missing  the  connexion;  but  quickly 
after,  to  show  he  was  not  stupid  —  and  indeed  it 
seemed  to  show  he  was  delightful  —  smiling  with 
extravagant  intelligence.  "Is  that  the  right  thing  to 
say?" 

Mitchy  gave  the  kindest  of  laughs.  "Well,  I  dare 
say  I  ought  n't  to." 

"  Oh  I  did  n't  mean  to  correct  you,"  his  interlocutor 
hastened  to  profess ;  "  I  meant  on  the  contrary,  will 
it  be  right  for  me  too  ? " 

Mitchy's  great  goggle  attentively  fixed  him.  "Try 
it." 

"To  her?" 

"To  every  one." 

120 


MR.  LONGDON 

"To  her  husband?" 

"Oh  to  Edward,"  Mitchy  laughed  again,  "per 
fectly!" 

"And  must  I  call  him  ' Edward '  ?" 

"Whatever  you  do  will  be  right,"  Mitchy  returned 
—  "even  though  it  should  happen  to  be  sometimes 
what  I  do." 

His  companion,  as  if  to  look  at  him  with  a  due 
appreciation  of  this,  stopped  swinging  the  nippers 
and  put  them  on.  "You  people  here  have  a  pleasant 
way—!" 

"Oh  we  have!"  —  Mitchy,  taking  him  up,  was 
gaily  emphatic.  He  began,  however,  already  to  per 
ceive  the  mystification  which  in  this  case  was  to  be 
his  happy  effect. 

"Mr.  Vanderbank,"  his  victim  remarked  with  per 
haps  a  shade  more  of  reserve,  "has  told  me  a  good 
deal  about  you."  Then  as  if,  in  a  finer  manner,  to 
keep  the  talk  off  themselves:  "He  knows  a  great 
many  ladies." 

"Oh  yes,  poor  chap,  he  can't  help  it.  He  finds 
a  lady  wherever  he  turns." 

The  stranger  took  this  in,  but  seemed  a  little  to 
challenge  it.  "Well,  that's  reassuring,  if  one  some 
times  fancies  there  are  fewer." 

"  Fewer  than  there  used  to  be  ?  —  I  see  what  you 
mean,"  said  Mitchy.  "  But  if  it  has  struck  you  so, 
that's  awfully  interesting."  He  glared  and  grinned 
and  mused.  "I  wonder." 

"Well,  we  shall  see."  His  friend  seemed  to  wish 
not  to  dogmatise. 

"  Shall  we  ? "  Mitchy  considered  it  again  in  its  high 
121 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

suggestive  light.  "You  will  —  but  how  shall  I?" 
Then  he  caught  himself  up  with  a  blush.  "What 
a  beastly  thing  to  say  —  as  if  it  were  mere  years 
that  make  you  see  it!" 

His  companion  this  time  gave  way  to  the  joke. 
"What  else  can  it  be  —  if  I've  thought  so  ?" 

"  Why,  it 's  the  facts  themselves,  and  the  fine  taste, 
and  above  all  something  qui  ne  court  pas  les  rues,  an 
approach  to  some  experience  of  what  a  lady  is."  The 
young  man's  acute  reflexion  appeared  suddenly  to 
flower  into  a  vision  of  opportunity  that  swept  every 
thing  else  away.  "  Excuse  my  insisting  on  your  time 
of  life  —  but  you  have  seen  some?"  The  question 
was  of  such  interest  that  he  had  already  begun  to 
follow  it.  "  Oh  the  charm  of  talk  with  some  one  who 
can  fill  out  one's  idea  of  the  really  distinguished 
women  of  the  past !  If  I  could  get  you,"  he  continued, 
"to  be  so  awfully  valuable  as  to  fill  out  mine!" 

His  fellow  visitor,  on  this,  made,  in  a  pause,  a 
nearer  approach  to  taking  visibly  his  measure.  "  Are 
you  sure  you  've  got  an  idea  ? " 

Mr.  Mitchett  brightly  thought.  "No.  That  must 
be  just  why  I  appeal  to  you.  And  it  can't  therefore  be 
for  confirmation,  can  it?"  he  went  on.  "It  must 
be  for  the  beautiful  primary  hint  altogether." 

His  interlocutor  began,  with  a  shake  of  the  eye 
glass,  to  shift  and  sidle  again,  as  if  distinctly  excited 
by  the  subject.  But  it  was  as  if  his  very  excitement 
made  the  poor  gentleman  a  trifle  coy.  "  Are  there  no 
nice  ones  now  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  there  must  be  lots.  In  fact  I  know  quan 
tities." 

122 


MR.  LONGDON 

This  had  the  effect  of  pulling  the  stranger  up.  "Ah 
'quantities'!  There  it  is." 

"Yes,"  said  Mitchy,  "fancy  the  'lady'  in  her  mil 
lions.  Have  you  come  up  to  London,  wondering,  as 
you  must,  about  what 's  happening  —  for  Vanderbank 
mentioned,  I  think,  that  you  have  come  up  —  in  pur 
suit  of  her  ?" 

"Ah,"  laughed  the  subject  of  Vanderbank's  in 
formation,  "I'm  afraid  'pursuit,'  with  me,  is  over." 

"Why,  you're  at  the  age,"  Mitchy  returned,  "of 
the  most  exquisite  form  of  it.  Observation." 

"Yet  it's  a  form,  I  seem  to  see,  that  you've  not 
waited  for  my  age  to  cultivate."  This  was  followed 
by  a  decisive  headshake.  "  I  'm  not  an  observer.  I  'm 
a  hater." 

"That  only  means,"  Mitchy  explained,  "that  you 
keep  your  observation  for  your  likes  —  which  is  more 
admirable  than  prudent.  But  between  my  fear  in  the 
one  direction  and  my  desire  in  the  other,"  he  lightly 
added,  "I  scarcely  know  how  to  present  myself.  I 
must  study  the  ground.  Meanwhile  has  old  Van  told 
you  much  about  me  ?" 

Old  Van's  possible  confidant,  instead  of  immedi 
ately  answering,  again  assumed  the  pince-nez.  "Is 
that  what  you  call  him  ?" 

"  In  general,  I  think  —  for  shortness." 

"And  also"  —  the  speaker  hesitated  —  "for  es 
teem?" 

Mitchy  laughed  out.  "For  veneration!  Our  dis 
respects,  I  think,  are  all  tender,  and  we  would  n't  for 
the  world  do  to  a  person  we  don't  like  anything  so  nice 
as  to  call  him,  or  even  to  call  her,  don't  you  know  —  ? " 

123 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

His  questioner  had  quickly  looked  as  if  he  knew. 
"Something  pleasant  and  vulgar?" 

Mitchy's  gaiety  deepened.  "That  discrimination's 
our  only  austerity.  You  must  fall  in." 

"Then  what  will  you  call  me?" 

"What  can  we  ?"  After  which,  sustainingly,  "I  'm 
'Mitchy,'"  our  friend  stated. 

His  interlocutor  looked  slightly  queer.  "I  don't 
think  I  can  quite  begin.  I'm  Mr.  Longdon,"  he  al 
most  blushed  to  articulate. 

"Absolutely  and  essentially  —  that's  exactly  what 
I  recognise.  I  defy  any  one  to  see  you,"  Mitchy  de 
clared,  "as  anything  else,  and  on  that  footing  you'll 
be,  among  us,  unique." 

Mr.  Longdon  appeared  to  accept  his  prospect  of 
isolation  with  a  certain  gravity.  "I  gather  from  you 

—  I've  gathered   indeed   from  Mr.   Vanderbank  — 
that  you're  a  little  sort  of  a  set  that  hang  very  much 
together." 

"Oh  yes;  not  a  formal  association  nor  a  secret 
society  —  still  less  a  'dangerous  gang'  or  an  organisa 
tion  for  any  definite  end.  We're  simply  a  collection 
of  natural  affinities,"  Mitchy  explained;  "meeting 
perhaps  principally  in  Mrs.  Brook's  drawing-room 

—  though  sometimes  also  in  old  Van's,  as  you  see, 
sometimes  even  in  mine  —  and  governed  at  any  rate 
everywhere  by  Mrs.  Brook,  in  our  mysterious  ebbs 
and  flows,  very  much  as  the  tides  are  governed  by  the 
moon.    As  I  say,"  Mitchy  pursued,  "you  must  join. 
But  if  Van  has  got  hold  of  you,"  he  added,  "or  you  've 
got  hold  of  him,  you  have  joined.   We're  not.quite  so 
numerous  as  I  could  wish,  and  we  want  variety;  we 

124 


MR.  LONGDON 

want  just  what  I'm  sure  you'll  bring  us  —  a  fresh 
eye,  an  outside  mind." 

Mr.  Longdon  wore  for  a  minute  the  air  of  a  man 
knowing  but  too  well  what  it  was  to  be  asked  to  put 
down  his  name.  "My  friend  Vanderbank  swaggers 
so  little  that  it's  rather  from  you  than  from  himself 
that  I  seem  to  catch  the  idea  — !" 

"Of  his  being  a  great  figure  among  us  ?  I  don't 
know  what  he  may  have  said  to  you  or  have  sup 
pressed;  but  you  can  take  it  from  me  —  as  between 
ourselves,  you  know  —  that  he's  very  much  the  best 
of  us.  Old  Van  in  fact  —  if  you  really  want  a  candid 
opinion,"  and  Mitchy  shone  still  brighter  as  he  talked, 
"is  formed  for  a  distinctly  higher  sphere.  I  should 
go  so  far  as  to  say  that  on  our  level  he's  positively 
wasted." 

"And  are  you  very  sure  you  're  not  ? "  Mr.  Longdon 
asked  with  a  smile. 

"Dear  no  —  I 'm  in  my  element.  My  element's  to 
grovel  before  Van.  You  've  only  to  look  at  me,  as  you 
must  already  have  made  out,  to  see  I'm  everything 
dreadful  that  he  is  n't.  But  you  've  seen  him  for  your 
self —  I  need  n't  tell  you!"  Mitchy  sighed. 

Mr.  Longdon,  as  under  the  coercion  of  so  much 
confidence,  had  stood  in  place  longer  than  for  any 
previous  moment,  and  the  spell  continued  for  a  min 
ute  after  Mitchy  had  paused.  Then  nervously  and 
abruptly  he  turned  away,  his  friend  watching  him 
rather  aimlessly  wander.  "Our  host  has  spoken  of 
you  to  me  in  high  terms,"  he  said  as  he  came  back. 
"You'd  have  no  fault  to  find  with  them." 

Mitchy  took  it  with  his  highest  light.     "I  know 
125 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

from  your  taking  the  trouble  to  remember  that,  how 
much  what  I  've  said  of  him  pleases  and  touches  you. 
We're  a  little  sort  of  religion  then,  you  and  I;  we're 
an  organisation  of  two,  at  any  rate,  and  we  can't 
help  ourselves.  There  —  that's  settled."  He  glanced 
at  the  clock  on  the  chimney.  "  But  what 's  the  matter 
with  him  ? " 

"You  gentlemen  dress  so  much,"  said  Mr.  Longdon. 

Mitchy  met  the  explanation  quite  halfway.  "/ 
try  to  look  funny  —  but  why  should  Apollo  in  per 
son?" 

Mr.  Longdon  weighed  it.  "  Do  you  think  him  like 
Apollo?" 

"The  very  image.    Ask  any  of  the  women!" 

"But  do  they  know  —  ?" 

"How  Apollo  must  look?"  Mitchy  considered. 
"Why  the  way  it  works  is  that  it's  just  from  Van's 
appearance  they  get  the  tip,  and  that  then,  don't  you 
see  ?  they  've  their  term  of  comparison.  Is  n't  it  what 
you  call  a  vicious  circle  ?  I  borrow  a  little  their  vice." 

Mr.  Longdon,  who  had  once  more  been  arrested, 
once  more  sidled  away.  Then  he  spoke  from  the  other 
side  of  the  expanse  of  a  table  covered  with  books  for 
which  the  shelves  had  no  space  —  covered  with  port 
folios,  with  well-worn  leather-cased  boxes,  with  docu 
ments  in  neat  piles.  The  place  was  a  miscellany,  yet 
not  a  litter,  the  picture  of  an  admirable  order.  "  If 
we're  a  fond  association  of  two,  you  and  I,  let  me, 
accepting  your  idea,  do  what,  this  way,  under  a 
gentleman's  roof  and  while  enjoying  his  hospitality, 
I  should  in  ordinary  circumstances  think  perhaps 
something  of  a  breach." 

126 


MR.  LONGDON 

"Oh  strike  out!"  Mitchy  laughed.  It  possibly 
chilled  his  interlocutor,  who  again  hung  fire  so  long 
that  he  himself  at  last  adopted  his  image.  "Why 
does  n't  he  marry,  you  mean  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  fairly  flushed  with  recognition. 
"You're  very  deep,  but  with  what  we  perceive  — 
why  does  n't  he  ? " 

Mitchy  continued  visibly  to  have  his  amusement, 
which  might  have  been,  this  time  and  in  spite  of  the 
amalgamation  he  had  pictured,  for  what  "they" 
perceived.  But  he  threw  off  after  an  instant  an  an 
swer  clearly  intended  to  meet  the  case.  "He  thinks 
he  has  n't  the  means.  He  has  great  ideas  of  what  a 
fellow  must  offer  a  woman." 

Mr.  Longdon's  eyes  travelled  a  while  over  the 
amenities  about  him.  "He  hasn't  such  a  view  of 
himself  alone  —  ?" 

"As  to  make  him  think  he's  enough  as  he  stands  ? 
No,"  said  Mitchy,  "I  don't  fancy  he  has  a  very  aw 
ful  view  of  himself  alone.  And  since  we  are  burning 
this  incense  under  his  nose,"  he  added,  "it's  also 
my  impression  that  he  has  no  private  means.  Women 
in  London  cost  so  much." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  a  pause.  "They  come  very 
high,  I  dare  say." 

"Oh  tremendously.  They  want  so  much  —  they 
want  everything.  I  mean  the  sort  of  women  he  lives 
with.  A  modest  man  —  who 's  also  poor  —  is  n't  in 
it.  I  give  you  that  at  any  rate  as  his  view.  There  are 
lots  of  them  that  would  —  and  only  too  glad  —  'love 
him  for  himself;  but  things  are  much  mixed,  and 
these  not  necessarily  the  right  ones,  and  at  all  events 

127 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

he  does  n't  see  it.    The  result  of  which  is  that  he 's 
waiting." 

"Waiting  to  feel  himself  in  love  ?" 

Mitchy  just  hesitated.  "Well,  we're  talking  of 
marriage.  Of  course  you'll  say  there  are  women 
with  money.  There  are  "  —  he  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  meditate  —  "  dreadful  ones  ! " 

The  two  men,  on  this,  exchanged  a  long  regard. 
"He  mustn't  do  that." 

Mitchy  again  hesitated.    "He  won't." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  also  a  silence,  which  he  presently 
terminated  by  one  of  his  jerks  into  motion.  "He 
shan't!" 

Once  more  Mitchy  watched  him  revolve  a  little,  but 
now,  familiarly  yet  with  a  sharp  emphasis,  he  himself 
resumed  their  colloquy.  "See  here,  Mr.  Longdon. 
Are  you  seriously  taking  him  up  ?" 

Yet  again,  at  the  tone  of  this  appeal,  the  old  man 
perceptibly  coloured.  It  was  as  if  his  friend  had 
brought  to  the  surface  an  inward  excitement,  and 
he  laughed  for  embarrassment.  "You  see  things  with 
a  freedom  — !" 

"Yes,  and  it's  so  I  express  them.  I  see  them,  I 
know,  with  a  raccourci;  but  time  after  all  rather 
presses,  and  at  any  rate  we  understand  each  other. 
What  I  want  now  is  just  to  say" —  and  Mitchy 
spoke  with  a  simplicity  and  a  gravity  he  had  not  yet 
used  —  "that  if  your  interest  in  him  should  at  any 
time  reach  the  point  of  your  wishing  to  do  something 
or  other  (no  matter  what,  don't  you  see  ?)  for  him  — ! " 

Mr.  Longdon,  as  he  faltered,  appeared  to  wonder, 
but  emitted  a  sound  of  gentleness.  "Yes  ?" 

128 


MR.  LONGDON 

"  Why,"  said  the  stimulated  Mitchy,  "  do,  for  God's 
sake,  just  let  me  have  a  finger  in  it.'* 

Mr.  Longdon's  momentary  mystification  was  per 
haps  partly  but  the  natural  effect  of  constitutional 
prudence.  "A  finger?" 

"  I  mean  —  let  me  help." 

"Oh!"  breathed  the  old  man  thoughtfully  and 
without  meeting  his  eyes. 

Mitchy,  as  if  with  more  to  say,  watched  him  an 
instant,  then  before  speaking  caught  himself  up. 
"  Look  out  —  here  he  comes." 

Hearing  the  stir  of  the  door  by  which  he  had  en 
tered  he  looked  round;  but  it  opened  at  first  only  to 
admit  Vanderbank's  servant.  "  Miss  Brookenham !" 
the  man  announced;  on  which  the  two  gentlemen  in 
the  room  were  —  audibly,  almost  violently  —  precipi 
tated  into  a  union  of  surprise. 


II 


HOWEVER  she  might  have  been  discussed  Nanda  was 
not  one  to  shrink,  for,  though  she  drew  up  an  instant 
on  failing  to  find  in  the  room  the  person  whose  invita 
tion  she  had  obeyed,  she  advanced  the  next  moment  as 
if  either  of  the  gentlemen  before  her  would  answer 
as  well.  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Mitchy  ?  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Longdon  ? "  She  made  no  difference  for 
them,  speaking  to  the  elder,  whom  she  had  not  yet 
seen,  as  if  they  were  already  acquainted.  There  was 
moreover  in  the  air  of  that  personage  at  this  juncture 
little  to  invite  such  a  confidence:  he  appeared  to  have 
been  startled,  in  the  oddest  manner,  into  stillness  and, 
holding  out  no  hand  to  meet  her,  only  stared  rather 
stiffly  and  without  a  smile.  An  observer  disposed  to 
interpret  the  scene  might  have  fancied  him  a  trifle 
put  off  by  the  girl's  familiarity,  or  even,  as  by  a  singu 
lar  effect  of  her  self-possession,  stricken  into  deeper 
diffidence.  This  self-possession,  however,  took  on  her 
own  part  no  account  of  any  awkwardness :  it  seemed 
the  greater  from  the  fact  that  she  was  almost  unnat 
urally  grave,  and  it  overflowed  in  the  immediate 
challenge :  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  Van  is  n't  here  ? 
I  Ve  come  without  mother  —  she  said  I  could,  to  see 
him,"  she  went  on,  addressing  herself  more  particu 
larly  to  Mitchy.  "  But  she  did  n't  say  I  might  do 
anything  of  that  sort  to  see  you." 

If  there  was  something  serious  in  Nanda  and  some- 
130 


MR.  LONGDON 

thing  blank  in  their  companion,  there  was,  super 
ficially  at  least,  nothing  in  Mr.  Mitchett  but  his  usual 
flush  of  gaiety.  "  Did  she  really  send  you  off  this  way 
alone  ? "  Then  while  the  girl's  face  met  his  own  with 
the  clear  confession  of  it:  "Is  n't  she  too  splendid  for 
anything?"  he  asked  with  immense  enjoyment. 
"What  do  you  suppose  is  her  idea  ?"  Nanda's  eyes 
had  now  turned  to  Mr.  Longdon,  whom  she  fixed 
with  her  mild  straightness ;  which  led  to  Mitchy's 
carrying  on  and  repeating  the  appeal.  "  Is  n't  Mrs. 
Brook  charming  ?  What  do  you  suppose  is  her  idea  ? " 

It  was  a  bound  into  the  mystery,  a  bound  of  which 
his  fellow  visitor  stood  quite  unconscious,  only  look 
ing  at  Nanda  still  with  the  same  coldness  of  wonder. 
All  expression  had  for  the  minute  been  arrested  in 
Mr.  Longdon,  but  he  at  last  began  to  show  that  it 
had  merely  been  retarded.  Yet  it  was  almost  with 
solemnity  that  he  put  forth  his  hand.  "How  do  you 
do  ?  How  do  you  do  ?  I'm  so  glad!" 

Nanda  shook  hands  with  him  as  if  she  had  done  so 
already,  though  it  might  have  been  just  her  look  of 
curiosity  that  detracted  from  her  air  of  amusing  her 
self.  "Mother  has  wanted  me  awfully  to  see  you. 
She  told  me  to  give  you  her  love,"  she  said.  Then  she 
added  with  odd  irrelevance:  "I  did  n't  come  in  the 
carriage,  nor  in  a  cab  nor  an  omnibus." 

"You  came  on  a  bicycle?"  Mitchy  enquired. 

"No,  I  walked."  She  still  spoke  without  a  gleam. 
"Mother  wants  me  to  do  everything." 

"Even  to  walk!"  Mitchy  laughed.  "Oh  yes,  we 
must  in  these  times  keep  up  our  walking!"  The 
ingenious  observer  just  now  suggested  might  even  have 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

detected  in  the  still  higher  rise  of  this  visitor's  spirits 
a  want  of  mere  inward  ease. 

She  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  effect  upon  him  of 
her  mention  of  her  mother,  and  she  took  none,  visibly, 
of  Mr.  Longdon's  manner  or  of  his  words.  What  she 
did  while  the  two  men,  without  offering  her,  either, 
a  seat,  practically  lost  themselves  in  their  deepening 
vision,  was  to  give  her  attention  all  to  the  place,  look 
ing  at  the  books,  pictures  and  other  significant  objects, 
and  especially  at  the  small  table  set  out  for  tea,  to 
which  the  servant  who  had  admitted  her  now  re 
turned  with  a  steaming  kettle.  "  Is  n't  it  charming 
here  ?  Will  there  be  any  one  else  ?  Where  is  Mr. 
Van?  Shall  I  make  tea?"  There  was  just  a  faint 
quaver,  showing  a  command  of  the  situation  more 
desired  perhaps  than  achieved,  in  the  very  rapid 
sequence  of  these  ejaculations.  The  servant  mean 
while  had  placed  the  hot  water  above  the  little  silver 
lamp  and  left  the  room. 

"Do  you  suppose  there's  anything  the  matter? 
Ought  n't  the  man  —  or  do  you  know  our  host's 
room?"  Mr.  Longdon,  addressing  Mitchy  with  so 
licitude,  yet  began  to  show  in  a  countenance  less  blank 
a  return  of  his  sense  of  relations.  It  was  as  if  some 
thing  had  happened  to  him  and  he  were  in  haste  to 
convert  the  signs  of  it  into  an  appearance  of  care  for 
the  proprieties. 

"Oh,"  said  Mitchy,  "Van's  only  making  himself 
beautiful "  —  which  account  of  their  absent  enter 
tainer  gained  a  point  from  his  appearance  at  the  mo 
ment  in  the  doorway  furthest  removed  from  the  place 
where  the  three  were  gathered. 
132 


MR.   LONGDON 

Vanderbank  came  in  with  friendly  haste  and  with 
something  of  the  look  indeed  —  refreshed,  almost 
rosy,  brightly  brushed  and  quickly  buttoned  —  of 
emerging,  out  of  breath,  from  pleasant  ablutions  and 
renewals.  "What  a  brute  to  have  kept  you  waiting! 
I  came  back  from  work  quite  begrimed.  How  d'  ye 
do,  how  d'  ye  do,  how  d'  ye  do  ?  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  huddled  there  as  if  you  were  on  a  street- 
crossing  ?  I  want  you  to  think  this  a  refuge  —  but  not 
of  that  kind!"  he  laughed.  "Sit  down,  for  heaven's 
sake ;  lie  down  —  be  happy !  Of  course  you  've  made 
acquaintance  all  —  except  that  Mitchy  's  so  modest ! 
Tea,  tea  !"  —  and  he  bustled  to  the  table,  where  the 
next  minute  he  appeared  rather  helpless.  "Nanda, 
you  blessed  child,  do  you  mind  making  it  ?  How  jolly 
of  you !  —  are  you  all  right  ? "  He  seemed,  with  this, 
for  the  first  time,  to  be  aware  of  somebody's  absence. 
"Your  mother  is  n't  coming  ?  She  let  you  come  alone  ? 
How  jolly  of  her ! "  Pulling  off  her  gloves  Nanda  had 
come  immediately  to  his  assistance;  on  which,  quit 
ting  the  table  and  laying  hands  on  Mr.  Longdon's 
shoulder  to  push  him  toward  a  sofa,  he  continued  to 
talk,  to  sound  a  note  of  which  the  humour  was  the  ex 
aggeration  of  his  flurry.  "  How  jolly  of  you  to  be  will 
ing  to  come  —  most  awfully  kind !  I  hope  she  is  n't 
ill  ?  Do,  Mitchy,  lie  down.  Down,  Mitchy,  down !  — 
that's  the  only  way  to  keep  you."  He  had  waited  for 
no  account  of  Mrs.  Brookenham's  health,  and  it  might 
have  been  apparent  —  still  to  our  sharp  spectator  — 
that  he  found  nothing  wonderful  in  her  daughter's 
unsupported  arrival. 

"  I  can  make  tea  beautifully,"  she  said  from  behind 

133 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

her   table.    "Mother  showed   me   how  this   morn- 
ing." 

"This  morning?"  —  and  Mitchy,  who,  before  the 
fire  and  still  erect,  had  declined  to  be  laid  low,  greeted 
the  simple  remark  with  uproarious  mirth.  "Dear 
young  lady,  you're  the  most  delicious  family!" 

"She  showed  me  at  breakfast  about  the  little  things 
to  do.  She  thought  I  might  have  to  make  it  here  and 
told  me  to  offer,"  the  girl  went  on.  "I  have  n't  yet 
done  it  this  way  at  home  —  I  usually  have  my  tea  up 
stairs.  They  bring  it  up  in  a  cup,  all  made  and  very 
weak,  with  a  piece  of  bread-and-butter  in  the  saucer. 
That's  because  I'm  so  young.  Tishy  never  lets  me 
touch  hers  either;  so  we  had  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
That 's  what  mother  said "  —  she  followed  up  her 
story,  and  her  young  distinctness  had  clearly  some 
thing  to  do  with  a  certain  pale  concentration  in  Mr. 
Longdon's  face.  "  Mother  is  n't  ill,  but  she  told  me 
already  yesterday  she  would  n't  come.  She  said  it's 
really  all  for  me.  I  'm  sure  I  hope  it  is ! "  —  with  which 
there  flickered  in  her  eyes,  dimly  but  perhaps  all  the 
more  prettily,  the  first  intimation  they  had  given  of 
the  light  of  laughter.  "She  told  me  you  'd  understand, 
Mr.  Van  —  from  something  you've  said  to  her.  It's 
for  my  seeing  Mr.  Longdon  without  —  she  thinks  — 
her  spoiling  it." 

"Oh  my  dear  child,  'spoiling  it'!"  Vanderbank 
protested  as  he  took  a  cup  of  tea  from  her  to  carry  to 
their  friend.  "When  did  your  mother  ever  spoil  any 
thing  ?  I  told  her  Mr.  Longdon  wanted  to  see  you, 
but  I  did  n't  say  anything  of  his  not  yearning  also  for 
the  rest  of  the  family." 

'34 


MR.  LONGDON 

A  sound  of  protest  rather  formless  escaped  from 
the  gentleman  named,  but  Nanda  continued  to  carry 
out  her  duty.  "  She  told  me  to  ask  why  he  had  n't  been 
again  to  see  her.  Mr.  Mitchy,  sugar  ?  —  is  n't  that  the 
way  to  say  it  ?  Three  lumps  ?  You  're  like  me,  only 
that  I  more  often  take  five."  Mitchy  had  dashed  for 
ward  for  his  tea ;  she  gave  it  to  him ;  then  she  added 
with  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Longdon's,  which  she  had  had 
no  difficulty  in  catching:  "She  told  me  to  ask  you  all 
sorts  of  things." 

This  acquaintance  had  got  up  to  take  his  cup  from 
Vanderbank,  whose  hand,  however,  dealt  with  him 
on  the  question  of  his  sitting  down  again.  Mr.  Long- 
don,  resisting,  kept  erect  with  a  low  gasp  that  his  host 
only  was  near  enough  to  catch.  This  suddenly  ap 
peared  to  confirm  an  impression  gathered  by  Van 
derbank  in  their  contact,  a  strange  sense  that  his  vis 
itor  was  so  agitated  as  to  be  trembling  in  every  limb. 
It  brought  to  his  own  lips  a  kind  of  ejaculation  —  "I 
say  !  "  But  even  as  he  spoke  Mr.  Longdon's  face,  still 
white,  but  with  a  smile  that  was  not  all  pain,  seemed 
to  supplicate  him  not  to  notice;  and  he  was  not  a  man 
to  require  more  than  this  to  achieve  a  divination  as 
deep  as  it  was  rapid.  "Why  we've  all  been  scattered 
for  Easter,  have  n't  we  ?"  he  asked  of  Nanda.  "Mr. 
Longdon  has  been  at  home,  your  mother  and  father 
have  been  paying  visits,  I  myself  have  been  out  of 
London,  Mitchy  has  been  to  Paris,  and  you  —  oh 
yes,  I  know  where  you  've  been." 

"Ah  we  all  know  that  —  there  has  been  such  a  row 
made  about  it!"  Mitchy  said. 

"Yes,  I've  heard  of  the  feeling  there  is,"  Nanda 

135 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

replied.  "It's  supposed  to  be  awful,  my  knowing 
Tishy  —  quite  too  awful." 

Mr.  Longdon,  with  Vanderbank's  covert  aid,  had 
begun  to  appear  to  have  pulled  himself  together, 
dropping  back  on  his  sofa  and  attending  in  a  manner 
to  his  tea.  It  might  have  been  with  the  notion  of  show 
ing  himself  at  ease  that  he  turned,  on  this,  a  bene 
volent  smile  to  the  girl.  "  But  what,  my  dear,  is  the 
objection  —  ?" 

She  looked  gravely  from  him  to  Vanderbank  and 
to  Mitchy,  and  then  back  again  from  one  of  these  to 
the  other.  "Do  you  think  I  ought  to  say  ?" 

They  both  laughed  and  they  both  just  appeared 
uncertain,  but  Vanderbank  spoke  first.  "I  don't 
imagine,  Nanda,  that  you  really  know." 

"No  —  as  a  family,  you're  perfection!"  Mitchy 
broke  out.  Before  the  fire  again,  with  his  cup,  he 
addressed  his  hilarity  to  Mr.  Longdon.  "I  told  you 
a  tremendous  lot,  did  n't  I  ?  But  I  did  n't  tell  you 
about  that." 

His  elder  maintained,  yet  with  a  certain  vagueness, 
the  attitude  of  amiable  enquiry.  "About  the  —  a  — 
family?" 

"Well,"  Mitchy  smiled,  "about  its  ramifications. 
This  young  lady  has  a  tremendous  friendship  —  and 
in  short  it's  all  very  complicated." 

"My  dear  Nanda,"  said  Vanderbank,  "it's  all  very 
simple.  Don't  believe  a  word  of  anything  of  the  sort." 

He  had  spoken  as  with  the  intention  of  a  large 
vague  optimism;  but  there  was  plainly  something  in 
the  girl  that  would  always  make  for  lucidity.  "  Do  you 
mean  about  Carrie  Donner  ?  I  don't  believe  it,  and  at 

136 


MR.  LONGDON 

any  rate  I  don't  think  it's  any  one's  business.  I 
should  n't  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  a  person  who 
would  give  up  a  friend."  She  stopped  short  with  the 
sense  apparent  that  she  was  saying  more  than  she 
meant,  though,  strangely,  as  if  it  had  been  an  effect 
of  her  type  and  of  her  voice,  there  was  neither  pertness 
nor  passion  in-  the  profession  she  had  just  made.  Cu 
riously  wanting  as  she  seemed  both  in  timidity  and  in 
levity,  she  was  to  a  certainty  not  self-conscious  —  she 
was  extraordinarily  simple.  Mr.  Longdon  looked  at 
her  now  with  an  evident  surrender  to  his  extreme 
interest,  and  it  might  well  have  perplexed  him  to  see 
her  at  once  so  downright  as  from  experience  and  yet 
of  so  fresh  and  sweet  a  tenderness  of  youth. 

"That's  right,  that's  right,  my  dear  young  lady: 
never,  never  give  up  a  friend  for  anything  any  one 
says ! "  It  was  Mitchy  who  rang  out  with  this  lively 
wisdom,  the  action  of  which  on  Mr.  Longdon  —  un 
less  indeed  it  was  the  action  of  something  else  —  was 
to  make  that  personage,  in  a  manner  that  held  the 
others  watching  him  in  slight  suspense,  suddenly 
spring  to  his  feet  again,  put  down  his  teacup  carefully 
on  a  table  near  and  then  without  a  word,  as  if  no  one 
had  been  present,  quietly  wander  away  and  disappear 
through  the  door  left  open  on  Vanderbank's  entrance. 
It  opened  into  a  second,  a  smaller  sitting-room,  into 
which  the  eyes  of  his  companions  followed  him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Nanda  asked.  "Has  he 
been  taken  ill  ?" 

"He  is  'rum,'  my  dear  Van,"  Mitchy  said;  "but 
you're  right  —  of  a  charm,  a  distinction!  In  short 
just  the  sort  of  thing  we  want." 

137 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"The  sort  of  thing  we  'want'  —  I  dare  say ! "  Van- 
derbank  laughed.  "But  it's  not  the  sort  of  thing 
that's  to  be  had  for  the  asking  —  it's  a  sort  we  shall 
be  mighty  lucky  if  we  can  get ! " 

Mitchy  turned  with  amusement  to  Nanda.  "Van 
has  invented  him  and,  with  the  natural  greed  of  the 
inventor,  won't  let  us  have  him  cheap.  Well,"  he 
went  on,  "I'll  'stand'  my  share." 

"The  difficulty  is  that  he's  so  much  too  good  for 
us,"  Vanderbank  explained. 

"Ungrateful  wretch,"  his  friend  cried,  "that's  just 
what  I've  been  telling  him  that  you  are!  Let  the 
return  you  make  not  be  to  deprive  me  — ! " 

"  Mr.  Van 's  not  at  all  too  good  for  me,  if  you  mean 
that,"  Nanda  broke  in.  She  had  finished  her  tea- 
making  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  her  hands 
folded  on  the  edge  of  the  tray. 

Vanderbank  only  smiled  at  her  in  silence,  but 
Mitchy  took  it  up.  "There's  nobody  too  good  for 
you,  of  course;  only  you're  not  quite,  don't  you 
know  ?  in  our  set.  You  're  in  Mrs.  Grendon's.  I 
know  what  you  're  going  to  say  —  that  she  has  n't 
got  any  set,  that  she's  just  a  loose  little  white  flower 
dropped  on  the  indifferent  bosom  of  the  world.  But 
you're  the  small  sprig  of  tender  green  that,  added  to 
her,  makes  her  immediately  'compose." 

Nanda  looked  at  him  with  her  cold  kindness. 
"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!" 

"Your  tone's  sweet  to  me,"  he  returned,  "as  show 
ing  that  you  don't  think  me,  either,  too  good  for  you. 
No  one,  remember,  will  take  that  for  your  excuse 
when  the  world  some  day  sees  me  annihilated  by 

138 


MR.  LONGDON 

your  having  put  an  end  to  our  so  harmless  rela 
tions." 

The  girl  appeared  to  lose  herself  a  moment  in  the 
abysmal  humanity  over  which  his  fairly  fascinating 
ugliness  played  like  the  whirl  of  an  eddy.  "  Martyr ! " 
she  gently  exclaimed.  But  there  was  no  smile  with  it. 
She  turned  to  Vanderbank,  who,  during  the  previous 
minute,  had  moved  toward  the  neighbouring  room, 
then  faltering,  taking  counsel  of  discretion,  had  come 
back  on  a  scruple.  "What  is  the  matter?'* 

"  What  do  you  want  to  get  out  of  him,  you  wretch  ? " 
Mitchy  went  on  as  their  host  for  an  instant  said  no 
thing. 

Vanderbank,  whose  handsome  face  had  a  fine 
thought  in  it,  looked  a  trifle  absently  from  one  of  them 
to  the  other;  but  it  was  to  Nanda  he  spoke.  "Do 
you  like  him,  Nanda  ?" 

She  showed  surprise  at  the  question.  "How  can 
I  know  so  soon  ? " 

"He  knows  already." 

Mitchy,  with  his  eyes  on  her,  became  radiant  to 
interpret.  "  He  knows  that  he  *s  pierced  to  the  heart ! " 

"The  matter  with  him,  as  you  call  it,"  Vander 
bank  brought  out,  "is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
I've  ever  seen."  He  looked  at  her  as  with  a  hope 
she  'd  understand.  "  Beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful ! " 

"Precisely,"  Mitchy  continued;  "the  victim  done 
for  by  one  glance  of  the  goddess ! " 

Nanda,  motionless  in  her  chair,  fixed  her  other 
friend  with  clear  curiosity.  "  *  Beautiful '  ?  Why 
beautiful?" 

Vanderbank,   about   to   speak,   checked   himself. 

139 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  won't  spoil  it.     Have  it  from  him!"  —  and,  re 
turning  to  their  friend,  he  this  time  went  out. 

Mitchy  and  Nanda  looked  at  each  other.  "But 
is  n't  it  rather  awful  ?"  Mitchy  demanded. 

She  got  up  without  answering;  she  slowly  came 
away  from  the  table.  "  I  think  I  do  know  if  I  like 
him." 

"Well  you  may,"  Mitchy  exclaimed,  "after  his 
putting  before  you  probably,  on  the  whole,  the  great 
est  of  your  triumphs." 

"And  I  also  know,  I  think,  Mr.  Mitchy,  that  I  like 
you"  She  spoke  without  attention  to  this  hyperbole. 

"  In  spite  of  my  ineffectual  attempts  to  be  brilliant  ? 
That's  a  joy,"  he  went  on,  "if  it's  not  drawn  out  by 
the  mere  clumsiness  of  my  flattery."  She  had  turned 
away  from  him,  kindly  enough,  as  if  time  for  his  talk 
in  the  air  were  always  to  be  allowed  him:  she  took 
in  vaguely  Vanderbank's  books  and  prints.  "Why 
did  n't  your  mother  come  ?"  Mitchy  then  enquired. 

At  this  she  again  looked  at  him.  "Do  you  mention 
her  as  a  way  of  alluding  to  something  you  guess  she 
must  have  told  me  ?" 

"That  I've  always  supposed  I  make  your  flesh 
creep?  Yes,"  Mitchy  admitted;  "I  see  she  must 
have  said  to  you:  'Be  nice  to  him,  to  show  him  it 
is  n't  quite  so  bad  as  that ! '  So  you  are  nice  —  so  you 
always  will  be  nice.  But  I  adore  you,  all  the  same, 
without  illusions." 

She  had  opened  at  one  of  the  tables,  unperceivingly, 
a  big  volume  of  which  she  turned  the  leaves.  "Don't 
'adore'  a  girl,  Mr.  Mitchy  —  just  help  her.  That's 
more  to  the  purpose." 

140 


MR.  LONGDON 

"Help  you?"  he  cried.  "You  bring  tears  to  my 
eyes ! " 

"  Can't  a  girl  have  friends  ? "  she  went  on.  "  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  idiotic."  Giving  him,  however, 
no  chance  to  take  her  up  on  this,  she  made  a  quick 
transition.  "  Mother  did  n't  come  because  she  wants 
me  now,  as  she  says,  more  to  share  her  own  life." 

Mitchy  looked  at  it.  "  But  is  this  the  way  for  her  to 
share  yours  ?" 

"Ah  that's  another  matter  —  about  which  you 
must  talk  to  her.  She  wants  me  no  longer  to  keep 
seeing  only  with  her  eyes.  She 's  throwing  me  into 
the  world." 

Mitchy  had  listened  with  the  liveliest  interest,  but 
he  presently  broke  into  a  laugh.  "What  a  good  thing 
then  that  I'm  there  to  catch  you!" 

Without  —  it  might  have  been  seen  —  having 
gathered  the  smallest  impression  of  what  they  en 
closed,  she  carefully  drew  together  again  the  covers  of 
her  folio.  There  was  deliberation  in  her  movements. 
"I  shall  always  be  glad  when  you're  there.  But 
where  do  you  suppose  they  've  gone  ? "  Her  eyes  were 
on  what  was  visible  of  the  other  room,  from  which 
there  arrived  no  sound  of  voices. 

"They're  off  there,"  said  Mitchy,  "but  just  look 
ing  unutterable  things  about  you.  The  impression's 
too  deep.  Let  them  look,  and  tell  me  meanwhile  if 
Mrs.  Donner  gave  you  my  message." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  told  me  some  humbug." 

"The  humbug  then  was  in  the  tone  my  perfectly 
sincere  speech  took  from  herself.  She  gives  things, 
I  recognise,  rather  that  sound.  It's  her  weakness," 

141 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

he  continued,  "and  perhaps  even  one  may  say  her 
danger.  All  the  more  reason  you  should  help  her,  as 
I  believe  you  're  supposed  to  be  doing,  are  n't  you  ? 
I  hope  you  feel  you  are,"  he  earnestly  added. 

He  had  spoken  this  time  gravely  enough,  and  with 
magnificent  gravity  Nanda  replied.  "I  have  helped 
her.  Tishy's  sure  I  have.  That's  what  Tishy  wants 
me  for.  She  says  that  to  be  with  some  nice  girl's 
really  the  best  thing  for  her." 

Poor  Mitchy's  face  hereupon  would  have  been 
interesting,  would  have  been  distinctly  touching  to 
other  eyes;  butNanda's  were  not  heedful  of  it.  "Oh," 
he  returned  after  an  instant  and  without  profane 
mirth,  "that  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  for  any  one." 

Vanderbank,  however,  might  have  caught  his  ex 
pression,  for  Vanderbank  now  reappeared,  smiling  on 
the  pair  as  if  struck  by  their  intimacy.  "How  you  are 
keeping  it  up!"  Then  to  Nanda  persuasively:  "Do 
you  mind  going  to  him  in  there  ?  I  want  him  so  really 
to  see  you.  It 's  quite,  you  know,  what  he  came  for." 

Nanda  seemed  to  wonder.  "What  will  he  do  to 
me  ?  Anything  dreadful  ? " 

"He'll  tell  you  what  I  meant  just  now." 

"Oh,"  said  Nanda,  "if  he's  a  person  who  can  tell 
me  sometimes  what  you  mean  — !"  With  which  she 
went  quickly  off. 

"And  can't  /  hear?"  Mitchy  asked  of  his  host 
while  they  looked  after  her. 

"Yes,  but  only  from  me."  Vanderbank  had  pushed 
him  to  a  seat  again  and  was  casting  about  for  cigar 
ettes.  "Be  quiet  and  smoke,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

Mitchy,  on  the  sofa,  received  with  meditation  a 
142 


MR.  LONGDON 

light.  "Will  she  understand  ?  She  has  everything  in 
the  world  but  one,"  he  added.  "But  that's  half." 

Vanderbank,  before  him,  lighted  for  himself. 
"What  is  it?" 

"A  sense  of  humour." 

"Oh  yes,  she's  serious." 

Mitchy  smoked  a  little.    "She's  tragic." 

His  friend,  at  the  fire,  watched  a  moment  the  empty 
portion  of  the  other  room,  then  walked  across  to  give 
the  door  a  light  push  that  all  but  closed  it.  "It's 
rather  odd,"  he  remarked  as  he  came  back  —  "that's 
quite  what  I  just  said  to  him.  But  he  won't  treat  her 
to  comedy." 


Ill 


"Is  it  the  shock  of  the  resemblance  to  her  grand 
mother  ?"  Vanderbank  had  asked  of  Mr.  Longdon  on 
rejoining  him  in  his  retreat.  This  victim  of  memory, 
with  his  back  turned,  was  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
and  when  in  answer  he  showed  his  face  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes.  His  answer  in  fact  was  just  these 
tears,  the  significance  of  which  Vanderbank  imme 
diately  recognised.  "It's  still  greater  then  than  you 
gathered  from  her  photograph  ? " 

"It's  the  most  extraordinary  thing  in  the  world. 
I'm  too  absurd  to  be  so  upset"  —  Mr.  Longdon 
smiled  through  his  tears  —  "but  if  you  had  known 
Lady  Julia  you'd  understand.  It's  she  again,  as  I 
first  knew  her,  to  the  life ;  and  not  only  in  feature,  in 
stature,  in  colour,  in  movement,  but  in  every  bodily 
mark  and  sign,  in  every  look  of  the  eyes  above  all  — 
oh  to  a  degree !  —  in  the  sound,  in  the  charm  of  the 
voice."  He  spoke  low  and  confidentially,  but  with  an 
intensity  that  now  relieved  him  —  he  was  as  restless  as 
with  a  discovery.  He  moved  about  as  with  a  sacred 
awe  —  he  might  a  few  steps  away  have  been  in  the 
very  presence.  "She's  all  Lady  Julia.  There  isn't 
a  touch  of  her  mother.  It's  unique  —  an  absolute 
revival.  I  see  nothing  of  her  father,  I  see  nothing  of 
any  one  else.  Is  n't  it  thought  wonderful  by  every 
one  ?"  he  went  on.  "Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"To  have  prepared  you  a  little?"  —  Vanderbank 
144 


MR.  LONGDON 

felt  almost  guilty.  "  I  see  —  I  should  have  liked  to 
make  more  of  it;  though,"  he  added  all  lucidly,  "I 
might  so,  by  putting  you  on  your  guard,  have  caused 
myself  to  lose  what,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  it,  strikes 
me  as  one  of  the  most  touching  tributes  I  've  ever  seen 
rendered  to  a  woman.  In  fact,  however,  how  could 
I  know  ?  I  never  saw  Lady  Julia,  and  you  had  in 
advance  all  the  evidence  I  could  have:  the  portrait  — 
pretty  bad,  in  the  taste  of  the  time,  I  admit  —  and  the 
three  or  four  photographs  you  must  have  noticed  with 
it  at  Mrs.  Brook's.  These  things  must  have  compared 
themselves  for  you  with  my  photograph  in  there  of 
the  granddaughter.  The  similarity  of  course  we  had 
all  observed,  but  it  has  taken  your  wonderful  mem 
ory  and  your  happy  vision  to  put  into  it  all  the  de 
tail." 

Mr.  Longdon  thought  a  moment,  giving  a  dab  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief.  "Very  true  — you're  quite 
right.  It's  far  beyond  any  identity  in  the  pictures. 
But  why  did  you  tell  me,"  he  added  more  sharply, 
"that  she  is  n't  beautiful  ?" 

"You've  deprived  me,"  Vanderbank  laughed,  "of 
the  power  of  expressing  civilly  any  surprise  at  your 
finding  her  so.  But  I  said  to  you,  please  remember, 
nothing  that  qualified  a  jot  my  sense  of  the  special 
stamp  of  her  face.  I  've  always  positively  found  in  it 
a  recall  of  the  type  of  the  period  you  must  be  thinking 
of.  It  is  n't  a  bit  modern.  It's  a  face  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  — " 

"  It 's  a  face  of  Gainsborough ! "  Mr.  Longdon  re 
turned  with  spirit.  "Lady  Julia  herself  harked  back." 

Vanderbank,   clearly,   was   equally   touched   and 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

amused.  "Let  us  say  at  once  that  it's  a  face  of 
Raphael." 

His  old  friend's  hand  was  instantly  on  his  arm. 
"That's  exactly  what  I  often  said  to  myself  of  Lady 
Julia's." 

"The  forehead's  a  little  too  high,"  said  Vander- 
bank. 

"But  it's  just  that  excess  that,  with  the  exquisite 
eyes  and  the  particular  disposition  round  it  of  the  fair 
hair,  makes  the  individual  grace,  makes  the  beauty 
of  the  resemblance." 

Released  by  Lady  Julia's  lover,  the  young  man  in 
turn  grasped  him  as  an  encouragement  to  confidence. 
"  It 's  a  face  that  should  have  the  long  side-ringlets  of 
1830.  It  should  have  the  rest  of  the  personal  arrange 
ment,  the  pelisse,  the  shape  of  bonnet,  the  sprigged 
muslin  dress  and  the  cross-laced  sandals.  It  should 
have  arrived  in  a  pea-green  *  tilbury '  and  be  a  reader 
of  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  And  all  this  to  complete  the 
Raphael!" 

Mr.  Longdon,  who,  his  discovery  proclaimed,  had 
begun,  as  might  have  been  said,  to  live  with  it,  looked 
hard  a  moment  at  his  companion.  "How  you've 
observed  her!" 

Vanderbank  met  it  without  confusion.  "Whom 
have  n't  I  observed  ?  Do  you  like  her  ? "  he  then 
rather  oddly  and  abruptly  asked. 

The  old  man  broke  away  again.  "How  can  I  tell 
—  with  such  disparities  ? " 

"The  manner  must  be  different,"  Vanderbank  sug 
gested.  "And  the  things  she  says." 

His  visitor  was  before  him  again.  "I  don't  know 
146 


MR.  LONGDON 

what  to  make  of  them.  They  don't  go  with  the  rest 
of  her.  Lady  Julia,"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  "was  rather 
shy." 

On  this  too  his  host  could  meet  him.  "She  must 
have  been.  And  Nanda  —  yes,  certainly  —  does  n't 
give  that  impression." 

"On  the  contrary.  But  Lady  Julia  was  gay!" 
he  added  with  an  eagerness  that  made  Vanderbank 
smile. 

"I  can  also  see  that.  Nanda  does  n't  joke.  And 
yet,"  Vanderbank  continued  with  his  exemplary  can 
dour,  "we  must  n't  speak  of  her,  must  we  ?  as  if  she 
were  bold  and  grim." 

Mr.  Longdon  fixed  him.  "Do  you  think  she's 
sad?" 

They  had  preserved  their  lowered  tone  and  might, 
with  their  heads  together,  have  been  conferring  as 
the  party  "out"  in  some  game  with  the  couple  in  the 
other  room.  "Yes.  Sad."  But  Vanderbank  broke 
off.  "  I  '11  send  her  to  you."  Thus  it  was  he  had  come 
back  to  her. 

Nanda,  on  joining  the  elder  man,  went  straight  to 
the  point.  "  He  says  it 's  so  beautiful  —  what  you  feel 
on  seeing  me:  if  that  is  what  he  meant."  Mr.  Long 
don  kept  silent  again  at  first,  only  smiling  at  her,  but 
less  strangely  now,  and  then  appeared  to  look  about 
him  for  some  place  where  she  could  sit  near  him. 
There  was  a  sofa  in  this  room  too,  on  which,  ob 
serving  it,  she  quickly  sank  down,  so  that  they  were 
presently  together,  placed  a  little  sideways  and  face 
to  face.  She  had  shown  perhaps  that  she  supposed 
him  to  have  wished  to  take  her  hand,  but  he  forbore 

147 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

to  touch  her,  though  letting  her  feel  all  the  kindness 
of  his  eyes  and  their  long  backward  vision.  These 
things  she  evidently  felt  soon  enough;  she  went  on 
before  he  had  spoken.  "I  know  how  well  you  knew 
my  grandmother.  Mother  has  told  me  —  and  I  'm 
so  glad.  She  told  me  to  say  to  you  that  she  wants  you 
to  tell  me."  Just  a  shade,  at  this,  might  have  ap 
peared  to  drop  over  his  face,  but  who  was  there  to 
know  if  the  girl  observed  it  ?  It  did  n't  prevent  at  any 
rate  her  completing  her  statement.  "That's  why  she 
wished  me  to-day  to  come  alone.  She  said  she  wished 
you  to  have  me  all  to  yourself." 

No,  decidedly,  she  was  n't  shy :  that  mute  reflex 
ion  was  in  the  air  an  instant.  "That,  no  doubt,  is 
the  best  way.  I  thank  her  very  much.  I  called,  after 
having  had  the  honour  of  dining  —  I  called,  I  think, 
three  times,"  he  went  on  with  a  sudden  displacement 
of  the  question;  "but  I  had  the  misfortune  each  time 
to  miss  her." 

She  kept  looking  at  him  with  her  crude  young  clear 
ness.  "I  did  n't  know  about  that.  Mother  thinks 
she 's  more  at  home  than  almost  any  one.  She  does  it 
on  purpose:  she  knows  what  it  is,"  Nanda  pursued 
with  her  perfect  gravity,  "for  people  to  be  disap 
pointed  of  finding  her." 

"Oh  I  shall  find  her  yet,"  said  Mr.  Longdon.  "And 
then  I  hope  I  shall  also  find  you." 

She  appeared  simply  to  consider  the  possibility  and 
after  an  instant  to  think  well  of  it.  "  I  dare  say  you 
will  now,  for  now  I  shall  be  down." 

Her  companion  just  blinked.  "In  the  drawing- 
room,  you  mean  —  always  ?" 

148 


MR.  LONGDON 

It  was  quite  what  she  meant.  "Always.  I  shall  see 
all  the  people  who  come.  It  will  be  a  great  thing  for 
me.  I  want  to  hear  all  the  talk.  Mr.  Mitchett  says 
I  ought  to  —  that  it  helps  to  form  the  young  mind. 
I  hoped,  for  that  reason,"  she  went  on  with  the 
directness  that  made  her  honesty  almost  violent  — 
"I  hoped  there  would  be  more  people  here  to-day." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  there  are  not ! "  —  the  old  man  rang 
equally  clear.  "  Mr.  Vanderbank  kindly  arranged  the 
matter  for  me  just  this  way.  I  met  him  at  dinner,  at 
your  mother's,  three  weeks  ago,  and  he  brought  me 
home  here  that  night,  when,  as  knowing  you  so  dif 
ferently,  we  took  the  liberty  of  talking  you  all  over. 
It  naturally  had  the  effect  of  making  me  want  to 
begin  with  you  afresh  —  only  that  seemed  difficult 
too  without  further  help.  This  he  good-naturedly 
offered  me ;  he  said  "  —  and  Mr.  Longdon  recovered 
his  spirits  to  repeat  it  —  "'Hang  it,  I'll  have  'em 
here  for  you ! ' 

"I  see  —  he  knew  we'd  come."  Then  she  caught 
herself  up.  "But  we  have  n't  come,  have  we  ?" 

"Oh  it's  all  right  —  it's  all  right.  To  me  the  oc 
casion's  brilliant  and  the  affluence  great.  I've  had 
such  talk  with  those  young  men — " 

"I  see"  — she  was  again  prompt,  but  beyond  any 
young  person  he  had  ever  met  she  might  have  struck 
him  as  literal.  "You're  not  used  to  such  talk.  Neither 
am  I.  It's  rather  wonderful,  isn't  it?  They're 
thought  awfully  clever,  Mr.  Van  and  Mr.  Mitchy. 
Do  you  like  them  ?"  she  pushed  on. 

Mr.  Longdon,  who,  as  compared  with  her,  might 
have  struck  a  spectator  as  infernally  subtle,  took  an 

149 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

instant  to  think.    "I've  never  met  Mr.  Mitchett  be 
fore." 

"Well,  he  always  thinks  one  does  n't  like  him," 
Nanda  explained.  "But  one  does.  One  ought  to," 
she  added. 

Her  companion  had  another  pause.  "He  likes 
your 

Oh  Mr.  Longdon  need  n't  have  hesitated !  "  I 
know  he  does.  He  has  told  mother.  He  has  told  lots 
of  people." 

"He  has  told  even  you,"  Mr.  Longdon  smiled. 

"Yes  —  but  that  is  n't  the  same.  I  don't  think  he's 
a  bit  dreadful,"  she  pursued.  Still,  there  was  a  greater 
interest.  "  Do  you  like  Mr.  Van  ? " 

This  time  her  interlocutor  indeed  hung  fire.  "How 
can  I  tell  ?  He  dazzles  me." 

"But  don't  you  like  that  ?"  Then  before  he  could 
really  say:  "You're  afraid  he  may  be  false?" 

At  this  he  fairly  laughed.  "You  go  to  the  point!" 
She  just  coloured  to  have  amused  him  so,  but  he 
quickly  went  on:  "I  think  one  has  a  little  natural 
nervousness  at  being  carried  off  one's  feet.  I  'm  afraid 
I  've  always  liked  too  much  to  see  where  I  'm  going." 

"And  you  don't  with  him  ?"  She  spoke  with  her 
curious  hard  interest.  "I  understand.  But  I  think 
I  like  to  be  dazzled." 

"Oh  you  've  got  time  —  you  can  come  round  again ; 
you've  a  margin  for  accidents,  for  disappointments 
and  recoveries :  you  can  take  one  thing  with  another. 
But  I  've  only  my  last  little  scrap." 

"And  you  want  to  make  no  mistakes  —  I  see." 

"Well,  I'm  too  easily  upset." 
150 


MR.  LONGDON 

"Ah  so  am  I,"  said  Nanda.  "I  assure  you  that  in 
spite  of  what  you  say  I  want  to  make  no  mistakes 
either.  I  've  seen  a  great  many  —  though  you  might  n't 
think  it,"  she  persisted;  "I  really  know  what  they 
may  be.  Do  you  like  me?"  she  brought  forth.  But 
even  on  this  she  spared  him  too ;  a  look  appeared  to 
have  been  enough  for  her.  "How  can  you  say,  of 
course,  already  ?  —  if  you  can't  say  for  Mr.  Van.  I 
mean  as  you've  seen  him  so  much.  When  he  asked 
me  just  now  if  I  liked  you  I  told  him  it  was  too  soon. 
But  it  is  n't  now;  you  see  it  goes  fast.  I  do  like  you." 
She  gave  him  no  time  to  acknowledge  this  tribute, 
but  —  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course  —  tried  him 
quickly  with  something  else.  "  Can  you  say  if  you 
like  mother  ? " 

He  could  meet  it  pretty  well  now.  "There  are 
immense  reasons  why  I  should." 

"Yes  —  I  know  about  them,  as  I  mentioned:  mo 
ther  has  told  me."  But  what  she  had  to  put  to  him 
kept  up  his  surprise.  "Have  reasons  anything  to  do 
with  it  ?  I  don't  believe  you  like  her!"  she  exclaimed. 
"She  does  n't  think  so,"  she  added. 

The  old  man's  face  at  last,  partly  bewildered,  partly 
reassured,  showed  something  finer  still  in  the  effect 
she  produced.  "Into  what  mysteries  you  plunge!" 

"Oh  we  do ;  that's  what  every  one  says  of  us.  We 
discuss  everything  and  every  one  —  we're  always 
discussing  each  other.  I  think  we  must  be  rather  cele 
brated  for  it,  and  it's  a  kind  of  trick  —  is  n't  it  ?  — 
that's  catching.  But  don't  you  think  it's  the  most 
interesting  sort  of  talk  ?  Mother  says  we  have  n't  any 
prejudices.  You  have,  probably,  quantities  —  and 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

beautiful  ones:  so  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you. 
But  you  '11  find  out  for  yourself." 

"Yes  —  I'm  rather  slow;  but  I  generally  end  by 
finding  out.  And  I  've  got,  thank  heaven,"  said  Mr. 
Longdon,  "quite  prejudices  enough." 

"Then  I  hope  you  '11  tell  me  some  of  them,"  Nanda 
replied  in  a  tone  evidently  marking  how  much  he 
pleased  her. 

"Ah  you  must  do  as  7  do  —  you  must  find  out  for 
yourself.  Your  resemblance  to  your  grandmother  is 
quite  prodigious,"  he  immediately  added. 

"That's  what  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  —  your 
recollection  of  her  and  your  wonderful  feeling  about 
her.  Mother  has  told  me  things,  but  that  I  should 
have  something  straight  from  you  is  exactly  what  she 
also  wants.  My  grandmother  must  have  been  awfully 
nice,"  the  girl  rambled  on,  "and  I  somehow  don't  see 
myself  at  all  as  the  same  sort  of  person." 

"Oh  I  don't  say  you're  in  the  least  the  same  sort: 
all  I  allude  to,"  Mr.  Longdon  returned,  "is  the  mir 
acle  of  the  physical  heredity.  Nothing  could  be  less 
like  her  than  your  manner  and  your  talk." 

Nanda  looked  at  him  with  all  her  honesty. 
"They're  not  so  good,  you  must  think." 

He  hung  fire  an  instant,  but  was  as  honest  as  she. 
"  You  're  separated  from  her  by  a  gulf  —  and  not  only 
of  time.  Personally,  you  see,  you  breathe  a  different 
air." 

She  thought  —  she  quite  took  it  in.  "Of  course. 
And  you  breathe  the  same  —  the  same  old  one,  I 
mean,  as  my  grandmother." 

"The  same  old  one,"  Mr.  Longdon  smiled,  "as 
152 


MR.  LONGDON 

much  as  possible.  Some  day  I  '11  tell  you  more  of  what 
you're  curious  of.    I  can't  go  into  it  now." 

"  Because  I  've  upset  you  so  ? "  Nanda  frankly 
asked. 

"That's  one  of  the  reasons." 

"  I  think  I  can  see  another  too,"  she  observed  after 
a  moment.  "  You  're  not  sure  how  much  I  shall  under 
stand.  But  I  shall  understand,"  she  went  on,  "more, 
perhaps,  than  you  think.  In  fact,"  she  said  earnestly, 
"I  promise  to  understand.  I've  some  imagination. 
Had  my  grandmother?"  she  asked.  Her  actual  se 
quences  were  not  rapid,  but  she  had  already  anti 
cipated  him.  "I've  thought  of  that  before,  because 
I  put  the  same  question  to  mother." 

"And  what  did  your  mother  say?" 
' '  Imagination  —  dear  mamma  ?    Not  a  grain ! ' ' 

The  old  man  showed  a  faint  flush.  "Your  mother 
then  has  a  supply  that  makes  up  for  it." 

The  girl  fixed  him  on  this  with  a  deeper  attention. 
"You  don't  like  her  having  said  that." 

His  colour  came  stronger,  though  a  slightly  strained 
smile  did  what  it  could  to  diffuse  coolness.  "I  don't 
care  a  single  scrap,  my  dear,  in  respect  to  the  friend 
I'm  speaking  of,  for  any  judgement  but  my  own." 

"Not  even  for  her  daughter's  ?" 

"Not  even  for  her  daughter's."  Mr.  Longdon  had 
not  spoken  loud,  but  he  rang  as  clear  as  a  bell. 

Nanda,  for  admiration  of  it,  broke  almost  for  the 
first  time  into  the  semblance  of  a  smile.  "You  feel  as 
if  my  grandmother  were  quite  your  property ! " 

"Oh  quite." 

"I  say  —  that's  splendid!" 

153 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  he  answered  kindly. 

The  very  kindness  pulled  her  up.  "Pardon  my 
speaking  so,  but  I'm  sure  you  know  what  I  mean. 
You  mustn't  think,"  she  eagerly  continued,  "that 
mother  won't  also  want  to  hear  you." 

"  On  the  subject  of  Lady  Julia  ? "  He  gently,  but 
very  effectively,  shook  his  head.  "Your  mother  shall 
never  hear  me." 

Nanda  appeared  to  wonder  at  it  an  instant,  and  it 
made  her  completely  grave  again.  "  It  will  be  all  for 
me?" 

"  Whatever  there  may  be  of  it,  my  dear." 

"Oh  I  shall  get  it  all  out  of  you,"  she  returned  with 
out  hesitation.  Her  mixture  of  free  familiarity  and  of 
the  vividness  of  evocation  of  something,  whatever  it 
was,  sharply  opposed  —  the  little  worry  of  this  con 
tradiction,  not  altogether  unpleasant,  continued  to 
fill  his  consciousness  more  discernibly  than  anything 
else.  It  was  really  reflected  in  his  quick  brown  eyes 
that  she  alternately  drew  him  on  and  warned  him  off, 
but  also  that  what  they  were  beginning  more  and 
more  to  make  out  was  an  emotion  of  her  own  tremb 
ling  there  beneath  her  tension.  His  glimpse  of  it 
widened  —  his  glimpse  of  it  fairly  triumphed  when 
suddenly,  after  this  last  declaration,  she  threw  off  with 
quite  the  same  accent  but  quite  another  effect:  "I  'm 
glad  to  be  like  any  one  the  thought  of  whom  makes 
you  so  good!  You  are  good,"  she  continued;  "I  see 
already  how  I  shall  feel  it."  She  stared  at  him  with 
tears,  the  sight  of  which  brought  his  own  straight 
back;  so  that  thus  for  a  moment  they  sat  there  to 
gether. 

154 


MR.  LONGDON 

« 

"My  dear  child!"  he  at  last  simply  murmured. 
But  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  now,  and  her  own  im 
mediately  met  it. 

"You'll  get  used  to  me,"  she  said  with  the  same 
gentleness  that  the  response  of  her  touch  had  tried  to 
express;  "and  I  shall  be  so  careful  with  you  that  — 
well,  you'll  see !"  She  broke  short  off  with  a  quaver 
and  the  next  instant  she  turned  —  there  was  some  one 
at  the  door.  Vanderbank,  still  not  quite  at  his  ease, 
had  come  back  to  smile  upon  them.  Detaching  her 
self  from  Mr.  Longdon  she  got  straight  up  to  meet 
him.  "You  were  right,  Mr.  Van.  It's  beautiful, 
beautiful,  beautiful ! " 


BOOK   FOURTH 
MR.  CASHMORE 


I 


HAROLD  BROOKENHAM,  whom  Mr.  Cashmore,  ushered 
in  and  announced,  had  found  in  the  act  of  helping 
himself  to  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  table  apparently  just 
prepared  —  Harold  Brookenham  arrived  at  the  point 
with  a  dash  so  direct  as  to  leave  the  visitor  an  option 
between  but  two  suppositions:  that  of  a  desperate 
plunge,  to  have  his  shame  soon  over,  or  that  of  the  ac 
quired  habit  of  such  appeals,  which  had  taught  him  the 
easiest  way.  There  was  no  great  sharpness  in  the  face 
of  Mr.  Cashmore,  who  was  somehow  massive  with 
out  majesty;  yet  he  might  n't  have  been  proof  against 
the  suspicion  that  his  young  friend's  embarrassment 
was  an  easy  precaution,  a  conscious  corrective  to  the 
danger  of  audacity.  It  would  n't  have  been  impos 
sible  to  divine  that  if  Harold  shut  his  eyes  and  jumped 
it  was  mainly  for  the  appearance  of  doing  so.  Expe 
rience  was  to  be  taken  as  showing  that  one  might  get 
a  five-pound  note  as  one  got  a  light  for  a  cigarette; 
but  one  had  to  check  the  friendly  impulse  to  ask  for 
it  in  the  same  way.  Mr.  Cashmore  had  in  fact  looked 
surprised,  yet  not  on  the  whole  so  surprised  as  the 
young  man  seemed  to  have  expected  of  him.  There 
was  almost  a  quiet  grace  in  the  combination  of 
promptitude  and  diffidence  with  which  Harold  took 
over  the  responsibility  of  all  proprietorship  of  the 
crisp  morsel  of  paper  that  he  slipped  with  slow  firm 
ness  into  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  rubbing  it  gently 

159 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

in  its  passage  against  the  delicately  buff-coloured 
duck  of  which  that  garment  was  composed.  "So 
quite  too  awfully  kind  of  you  that  I  really  don't  know 
what  to  say"  —  there  was  a  marked  recall,  in  the 
manner  of  this  speech,  of  the  sweetness  of  his  mo 
ther's  droop  and  the  tenderness  of  her  wail.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  been  moved  for  the  moment  to  moralise,  but 
the  eyes  he  raised  to  his  benefactor  had  the  oddest 
effect  of  marking  that  personage  himself  as  a  theme 
for  the  moralist. 

Mr.  Cashmore,  who  would  have  been  very  red- 
haired  if  he  had  not  been  very  bald,  showed  a  single 
eye-glass  and  a  long  upper  lip;  he  was  large  and 
jaunty,  with  little  petulant  movements  and  intense 
ejaculations  that  were  not  in  the  line  of  his  type. 
"You  may  say  anything  you  like  if  you  don't  say 
you  '11  repay  it.  That 's  always  nonsense  —  I  hate 
it." 

Harold  remained  sad,  but  showed  himself  really 
superior.  "Then  I  won't  say  it."  Pensively,  a  minute, 
he  appeared  to  figure  the  words,  in  their  absurdity, 
on  the  lips  of  some  young  man  not,  like  himself,  tact 
ful.  "I  know  just  what  you  mean." 

"  But  I  think,  you  know,  that  you  ought  to  tell  your 
father,"  Mr.  Cashmore  said. 

"Tell  him  I've  borrowed  of  you?" 

Mr.  Cashmore  good-humouredly  demurred.  "It 
would  serve  me  right  —  it's  so  wretched  my  having 
listened  to  you.  Tell  him,  certainly,"  he  went  on  after 
an  instant.  "  But  what  I  mean  is  that  if  you  're  in  such 
straits  you  should  speak  to  him  like  a  man." 

Harold  smiled  at  the  innocence  of  a  friend  who 
1 60 


MR.  CASHMORE 

could  suppose  him  not  to  have  exhausted  that  re 
source.  "I'm  always  speaking  to  him  like  a  man, 
and  that's  just  what  puts  him  so  awfully  out.  He 
denies  to  my  face  that  I  am  one.  One  would  suppose, 
to  hear  him,  not  only  that  I  'm  a  small  objectionable 
child,  but  that  I  'm  scarcely  even  human.  He  does  n't 
conceive  me  as  with  human  wants." 

"Oh,"  Mr.  Cashmore  laughed,  "you've  all  — you 
youngsters  —  as  many  wants,  I  know,  as  an  advertise 
ment  page  of  the  Times." 

Harold  showed  an  admiration.  "That's  awfully 
good.  If  you  think  you  ought  to  speak  of  it,"  he  con 
tinued,  "do  it  rather  to  mamma."  He  noted  the  hour. 
"I  '11  go,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  to  give  you  the  chance." 

The  visitor  referred  to  his  own  watch.  "It's  your 
mother  herself  who  gives  the  chances  —  the  chances 
you  take." 

Harold  looked  kind  and  simple.  "She  has  come  in, 
I  know.  She'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

He  was  halfway  to  the  door,  but  Mr.  Cashmore, 
though  so  easy,  had  not  done  with  him.  "I  suppose 
you  mean  that  if  it 's  only  your  mother  who 's  told, 
you  may  depend  on  her  to  shield  you." 

Harold  turned  this  over  as  if  it  were  a  questionable 
sovereign,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  wonderfully 
smiled.  "Do  you  think  that  after  you 've  let  me  have 
it  you  can  tell  ?  You  could,  of  course,  if  you  had  n't." 
He  appeared  to  work  it  out  for  Mr.  Cashmore's  bene 
fit.  "But  I  don't  mind,"  he  added,  "your  telling 
mamma." 

"Don't  mind,  you  mean  really,  its  annoying  her 
so  awfully  ? " 

161 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

The  invitation  to  repent  thrown  off  in  this  could 
only  strike  the  young  man  as  absurd  —  it  was  so  pre 
vious  to  any  enjoyment.  Harold  liked  things  in  their 
proper  order;  but  at  the  same  time  his  evolutions 
were  quick.  "I  dare  say  I  am  selfish,  but  what  I  was 
thinking  was  that  the  terrific  wigging,  don't  you 
know  ?  —  well,  I  'd  take  it  from  her.  She  knows  about 
one's  life  —  about  our  having  to  go  on,  by  no  fault  of 
our  own,  as  our  parents  start  us.  She  knows  all  about 
wants  —  no  one  has  more  than  mamma." 

Mr.  Cashmore  soundlessly  glared  his  amusement. 
"So  she '11  say  it 'sail  right?" 

"Oh  no;  she'll  let  me  have  it  hot.  But  she'll  re 
cognise  that  at  such  a  pass  more  must  be  done  for  a 
fellow,  and  that  may  lead  to  something  —  indirectly, 
don't  you  see?  for  she  won't  tell  my  father,  she'll 
only,  in  her  own  way,  work  on  him  —  that  will  put 
me  on  a  better  footing  and  for  which  therefore  at 
bottom  I  shall  have  to  thank  you" 

The  eye  assisted  by  Mr.  Cashmore's  glass  had  with 
a  discernible  growth  of  something  like  alarm  fixed 
during  this  address  the  subject  of  his  beneficence. 
The  thread  of  their  relations  somehow  lost  itself  in 
the  subtler  twist,  and  he  fell  back  on  mere  stature, 
position  and  property,  things  always  convenient  in  the 
presence  of  crookedness.  "  I  shall  say  nothing  to  your 
mother,  but  I  think  I  shall  be  rather  glad  you  're  not 
a  son  of  mine." 

Harold  wondered  at  this  new  element  in  their  talk. 
"Do  your  sons  never  —  ?" 

"Borrow  money  of  their  mother's  visitors?"  Mr. 
Cashmore  had  taken  him  up,  eager,  evidently,  quite 

162 


MR.  CASHMORE 

to  satisfy  him;  but  the  question  was  caught  on  the 
wing  by  Mrs.  Brookenham  herself,  who  had  opened 
the  door  as  her  friend  spoke  and  who  quickly  ad 
vanced  with  an  echo  of  it. 

"Lady  Fanny's  visitors  ?"  —  and,  though  her  eyes 
rather  avoided  than  met  his  own,  she  seemed  to  cover 
her  ladyship's  husband  with  a  vague  but  practised 
sympathy.  "What  on  earth  are  you  saying  to  Harold 
about  them  ?"  Thus  it  was  that  at  the  end  of  a  few 
minutes  Mr.  Cashmore,  on  the  sofa  face  to  face  with 
her,  found  his  consciousness  quite  purged  of  its  actual 
sense  of  his  weakness  and  a  new  turn  given  to  the  idea 
of  what,  in  one's  very  drawing-room,  might  go  on  be 
hind  one's  back.  Harold  had  quickly  vanished — had 
been  tacitly  disposed  of,  and  Mrs.  Brook's  caller 
had  moved  even  in  the  short  space  of  time  so  far  in 
another  direction  as  to  have  drawn  from  her  the 
little  cold  question:  "'Presents'?  You  don't  mean 
money  ?" 

He  clearly  felt  the  importance  of  expressing  at  least 
by  his  silence  and  his  eye-glass  what  he  meant.  "  Her 
extravagance  is  beyond  everything,  and  though  there 
are  bills  enough,  God  knows,  that  do  come  in  to  me, 
I  don't  see  how  she  pulls  through  unless  there  are 
others  that  go  elsewhere." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  had  given  him  his  tea  —  her 
own  she  had  placed  on  a  small  table  near  her;  and 
she  could  now  respond  freely  to  the  impulse  felt,  on 
this,  of  settling  herself  to  something  of  real  interest. 
Except  to  Harold  she  was  incapable  of  reproach, 
though  there  were  of  course  shades  in  her  resignation, 
and  her  daughter's  report  of  her  to  Mr.  Longdon  as 

163 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

conscious  of  an  absence  of  prejudice  would  have  been 
justified  for  a  spectator  by  the  particular  feeling  that 
Mr.  Cashmere's  speech  caused  her  to  disclose.  What 
did  this  feeling  wonderfully  appear  unless  strangely 
irrelevant  ?  "  I  've  no  patience  when  I  hear  you  talk 
as  if  you  were  n't  horribly  rich." 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant  as  if  guessing  she  might 
have  derived  that  impression  from  Harold.  "What 
has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  Does  a  rich  man  enjoy  any 
more  than  a  poor  his  wife's  making  a  fool  of  him  ?" 

Her  eyes  opened  wider:  it  was  one  of  her  very 
few  ways  of  betraying  amusement.  There  was  little 
indeed  to  be  amused  at  here  except  his  choice  of 
the  particular  invidious  name.  "You  know  I  don't 
believe  a  word  you  say." 

Mr.  Cashmore  drank  his  tea,  then  rose  to  carry 
the  cup  somewhere  and  put  it  down,  declining  with 
a  motion  any  assistance.  When  he  was  on  the  sofa 
again  he  resumed  their  intimate  talk.  "I  like  tre 
mendously  to  be  with  you,  but  you  must  n't  think  I  've 
come  here  to  let  you  say  to  me  such  dreadful  things 
as  that."  He  was  an  odd  compound,  Mr.  Cashmore, 
and  the  air  of  personal  good  health,  the  untarnished 
bloom  which  sometimes  lent  a  monstrous  serenity  to 
his  mention  of  the  barely  mentionable,  was  on  occa 
sion  balanced  or  matched  by  his  playful  application 
of  extravagant  terms  to  matters  of  much  less  mo 
ment.  "You  know  what  I  come  to  you  for,  Mrs. 
Brook:  I  won't  come  any  more  if  you're  going  to  be 
horrid  and  impossible." 

"You  come  to  me,  I  suppose,  because  —  for  my 
deep  misfortune,  I  assure  you  —  I  've  a  kind  of  vision 

164 


MR.  CASHMORE 

of  things,  of  the  wretched  miseries  in  which  you  all 
knot  yourselves  up,  which  you  yourselves  are  as  little 
blessed  with  as  if,  tumbling  about  together  in  your 
heap,  you  were  a  litter  of  blind  kittens." 

"Awfully  good  that — you  do  lift  the  burden  of  my 
trouble!"  He  had  laughed  out  in  the  manner  of 
the  man  who  made  notes  for  platform  use  of  things 
that  might  serve;  but  the  next  moment  he  was  grave 
again,  as  if  his  observation  had  reminded  him  of 
Harold's  praise  of  his  wit.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that 
he  abruptly  brought  out:  "Where,  by  the  way,  is 
your  daughter  ?" 

"I  have  n't  the  least  idea.  I  do  all  I  can  to  enter 
into  her  life,  but  you  can't  get  into  a  railway  train 
while  it's  on  the  rush." 

Mr.  Cashmore  swung  back  to  hilarity.  "You  give 
me  lots  of  things.  Do  you  mean  she 's  so  '  fast '  ? " 
He  could  keep  the  ball  going. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  obliged  him  with  what  she 
meant.  "No;  she's  a  tremendous  dear,  and  we're 
great  friends.  But  she  has  her  free  young  life,  which, 
by  that  law  of  our  time  that  I  'm  sure  I  only  want, 
like  all  other  laws,  once  I  know  what  they  are,  to 
accept  —  she  has  her  precious  freshness  of  feeling 
which  I  say  to  myself  that,  so  far  as  control  is  con 
cerned,  I  ought  to  respect.  I  try  to  get  her  to  sit  wyith 
me,  and  she  does  so  a  little,  because  she's  kind.  But 
before  I  know  it  she  leaves  me  again :  she  feels  what 
a  difference  her  presence  makes  in  one's  liberty  of 
talk." 

Mr.  Cashmore  was  struck  by  this  picture.  "That's 
awfully  charming  of  her." 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Is  n't  it  too  dear  ?"  The  thought  of  it,  for  Mrs. 
Brook,  seemed  fairly  to  open  out  vistas.  "The 
modern  daughter!" 

"But  not  the  ancient  mother!"  Mr.  Cashmore 
smiled. 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  world  of  accepted  woe. 
"'Give  me  back,  give  me  back  one  hour  of  my 
youth ' !  Oh  I  have  n't  a  single  thrill  left  to  answer 
a  compliment.  I  sit  here  now  face  to  face  with  things 
as  they  are.  They  come  in  their  turn,  I  assure  you 
—  and  they  find  me,"  Mrs.  Brook  sighed,  "ready. 
Nanda  has  stepped  on  the  stage  and  I  give  her  up  the 
house.  Besides,"  she  went  on  musingly,  "it's  awfully 
interesting.  It  is  the  modern  daughter  —  we  're  really 
'doing'  her,  the  child  and  I;  and  as  the  modern  has 
always  been  my  own  note  —  I  've  gone  in,  I  mean, 
frankly  for  my  very  own  Time  —  who  is  one,  after 
all,  that  one  should  pretend  to  decline  to  go  where  it 
may  lead  ?"  Mr.  Cashmore  was  unprepared  with  an 
answer  to  this  question,  and  his  hostess  continued  in 
a  different  tone:  "It's  sweet  her  sparing  one!" 

This,  for  the  visitor,  was  firmer  ground.  "Do  you 
mean  about  talking  before  her?" 

Mrs.  Brook's  assent  was  positively  tender.  "She 
won't  have  a  difference  in  my  freedom.  It's  as  if  the 
dear  thing  knew,  don't  you  see  ?  what  we  must  keep 
back.  She  wants  us  not  to  have  to  think.  It's  quite 
maternal ! "  she  mused  again.  Then  as  if  with  the 
pleasure  of  presenting  it  to  him  afresh:  "That's  the 
modern  daughter!" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Cashmore,  "I  can't  help  wishing 
she  were  a  trifle  less  considerate.  In  that  case  I  might 

166 


MR.  CASHMORE 

find  her  with  you,  and  I  may  tell  you  frankly  that  I 
get  more  from  her  than  I  do  from  you.  She  has  the 
great  merit  for  me,  in  the  first  place,  of  not  being 
such  an  admirer  of  my  wife." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  took  this  up  with  interest.  "No 
—  you  're  right ;  she  does  n't,  as  I  do,  see  Lady  Fanny, 
and  that's  a  kind  of  mercy." 

"There  you  are  then,  you  inconsistent  creature," 
he  cried  with  a  laugh  :  "  after  all  you  do  believe  me ! 
You  recognise  how  benighted  it  would  be  for  your 
daughter  not  to  feel  that  Fanny's  bad." 

"You're  too  tiresome,  my  dear  man,"  Mrs.  Brook 
returned,  "with  your  ridiculous  simplifications. 
Fanny's  not  'bad';  she's  magnificently  good  —  in 
the  sense  of  being  generous  and  simple  and  true,  too 
adorably  unaffected  and  without  the  least  mesquinerie. 
She's  a  great  calm  silver  statue." 

Mr.  Cashmore  showed,  on  this,  something  of  the 
strength  that  comes  from  the  practice  of  public  de 
bate.  "Then  why  are  you  glad  your  daughter  does  n't 
like  her?" 

Mrs.  Brook  smiled  as  with  the  sadness  of  having 
too  much  to  triumph.  "  Because  I  'm  not,  like  Fanny, 
without  mesquinerie.  I'm  not  generous  and  simple. 
I  'm  exaggeratedly  anxious  about  Nanda.  I  care,  in 
spite  of  myself,  for  what  people  may  say.  Your  wife 
does  n't  —  she  towers  above  them.  I  can  be  a  shade 
less  brave  through  the  chance  of  my  girl's  not  hap 
pening  to  feel  her  as  the  rest  of  us  do." 

Mr.  Cashmore  too  heavily  followed.  "To  'feel' 
her?" 

Mrs.  Brook  floated  over.  "There  would  be  in  that 
167 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

case  perhaps  something  to  hint  to  her  not  to  shriek 
on  the  house-tops.  When  you  say,"  she  continued, 
"that  one  admits,  as  regards  Fanny,  anything  wrong, 
you  pervert  dreadfully  what  one  does  freely  grant  — 
that  she's  a  great  glorious  pagan.  It's  a  real  relief  to 
know  such  a  type  —  it's  like  a  flash  of  insight  into 
history.  None  the  less  if  you  ask  me  why  then  it  is  n't 
all  right  for  young  things  to  'shriek'  as  I  say,  I  have 
my  answer  perfectly  ready."  After  which,  as  her 
visitor  seemed  not  only  too  reduced  to  doubt  it,  but 
too  baffled  to  distinguish  audibly,  for  his  credit,  be 
tween  resignation  and  admiration,  she  produced: 
"Because  she's  purely  instinctive.  Her  instincts  are 
splendid  —  but  it's  terrific." 

"That's  all  I  ever  maintained  it  to  be!"  Mr.  Cash- 
more  cried.  "It  is  terrific." 

"Well,"  his  friend  answered,  "I'm  watching 
her.  We're  all  watching  her.  It's  like  some  great 
natural  poetic  thing  —  an  Alpine  sunrise  or  a  big 
high  tide." 

"You're  amazing!"  Mr. Cashmo re  laughed.  "I'm 
watching  her  too." 

"And  I'm  also  watching  you,"  Mrs.  Brook  lucidly 
continued.  "What  I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  is 
that  her  bills  are  paid  by  any  one.  It's  much  more 
probable,"  she  sagaciously  observed,  "that  they're  not 
paid  at  all." 

"  Oh  well,  if  she  can  get  on  that  way  — ! " 

"There  can't  be  a  place  in  London,"  Mrs.  Brook 
pursued,  "where  they're  not  delighted  to  dress  such 
a  woman.  She  shows  things,  don't  you  see  ?  as  some 
fine  tourist  region  shows  the  placards  in  the  fields  and 

1 68 


MR.  CASHMORE 

the  posters  on  the  rocks.  And  what  proof  can  you 
adduce?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Cashmore  had  grown  restless;  he  picked  a 
stray  thread  off  the  knee  of  his  trousers.  "Ah  when 
you  talk  about  'adducing'  — !"  He  appeared  to  in 
timate  —  as  with  the  hint  that  if  she  did  n't  take  care 
she  might  bore  him  —  that  it  was  the  kind  of  word 
he  used  only  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

"When  I  talk  about  it  you  can't  meet  me,"  she 
placidly  returned.  But  she  fixed  him  with  her  weary 
penetration.  "You  try  to  believe  what  you  cant  be 
lieve,  in  order  to  give  yourself  excuses.  And  she  does 
the  same  —  only  less,  for  she  recognises  less  in  gen 
eral  the  need  of  them.  She's  so  grand  and  simple." 

Poor  Mr.  Cashmore  stared.  "Grander  and  simpler 
than  I,  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  Brookenham  thought.  "Not  simpler  —  no; 
but  very  much  grander.  She  would  n't,  in  the  case 
you  conceive,  recognise  really  the  need  of  what  you 
conceive." 

Mr.  Cashmore  wondered  —  it  was  almost  mystic. 
"I  don't  understand  you." 

Mrs.  Brook,  seeing  it  all  from  dim  depths,  tracked 
it  further  and  further.  "We've  talked  her  over  so!" 

Mr.  Cashmore  groaned  as  if  too  conscious  of  it. 
"Indeed  we  have!" 

"  I  mean  we "  —  and  it  was  wonderful  how  her 
accent  discriminated.  "We've  talked  you  too  —  but 
of  course  we  talk  every  one."  She  had  a  pause  through 
which  there  glimmered  a  ray  from  luminous  hours, 
the  inner  intimacy  which,  privileged  as  he  was,  he 
could  n't  pretend  to  share ;  then  she  broke  out  almost 

169 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

impatiently:  "We're  looking  after  her  —  leave  her 
to  us!" 

His  envy  of  this  nearer  approach  to  what  so  touched 
him  than  he  could  himself  achieve  was  in  his  face, 
but  he  tried  to  throw  it  off.  "  I  doubt  if  after  all  you  're 
good  for  her." 

But  Mrs.  Brookenham  knew.  "She's  just  the  sort 
of  person  we  are  good  for,  and  the  thing  for  her  is  to 
be  with  us  as  much  as  possible  —  just  live  with  us  nat 
urally  and  easily,  listen  to  our  talk,  feel  our  con 
fidence  in  her,  be  kept  up,  don't  you  know  ?  by  the 
sense  of  what  we  expect  of  her  splendid  type,  and  so, 
little  by  little,  let  our  influence  act.  What  I  meant  to 
say  just  now  is  that  I  do  perfectly  see  her  taking  what 
you  call  presents." 

"Well  then,"  Mr.  Cashmore  enquired,  "what  do 
you  want  more  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  hung  fire  an  instant  —  she  seemed  on 
the  point  of  telling  him.  "  I  don't  see  her,  as  I  said, 
recognising  the  obligation." 

"  The  obligation  —  ?" 

"To  give  anything  back.  Anything  at  all."  Mrs. 
Brook  was  positive.  "The  comprehension  of  petty 
calculations  ?  Never ! " 

"I  don't  say  the  calculations  are  petty,"  Mr.  Cash- 
more  objected. 

"  Well,  she 's  a  great  creature.  If  she  does  fall  — ! " 
His  hostess  lost  herself  in  the  view,  which  was  at  last 
all  before  her.  "  Be  sure  we  shall  all  know  it." 

"That's  exactly  what  I'm  afraid  of!" 

"Then  don't  be  afraid  till  we  do.  She  would  fall, 
as  it  were,  on  us,  don't  you  see  ?  and,"  said  Mrs. 

170 


MR.  CASHMORE 

Brook,  with  decision  this  time  in  her  headshake, 
"  that  could  n't  be.  We  must  keep  her  up  —  that 's 
your  guarantee.  It's  rather  too  much,"  she  added 
with  the  same  increase  of  briskness,  "to  have  to 
keep  you  up  too.  Be  very  sure  that  if  Carrie  really 
wavers  — " 

"Carrie?" 

His  interruption  was  clearly  too  vague  to  be  sin 
cere,  and  it  was  as  such  that,  going  straight  on,  she 
treated  it.  "I  shall  never  again  give  her  three  min 
utes'  attention.  To  answer  to  you  for  Fanny  without 
being  able  — " 

"To  answer  to  Fanny  for  me,  do  you  mean  ?"  He 
had  flushed  quickly  as  if  he  awaited  her  there.  "  It 
would  n't  suit  you,  you  contend  ?  Well  then,  I  hope 
it  will  ease  you  off,"  he  went  on  with  spirit,  "  to  know 
that  I  wholly  loathe  Mrs.  Donner." 

Mrs.  Brook,  staring,  met  the  announcement  with 
an  absolute  change  of  colour.  "And  since  when, 
pray  ?"  It  was  as  if  a  fabric  had  crumbled.  "She  was 
here  but  the  other  day,  and  as  full  of  you,  poor  thing, 
as  an  egg  of  meat." 

Mr.  Cashmore  could  only  blush  for  her.  "I  don't 
say  she  was  n't.  My  life 's  a  burden  from  her." 

Nothing,  for  a  spectator,  could  have  been  so  odd  as 
Mrs.  Brook's  disappointment  unless  it  had  been  her 
determination.  "  Have  you  done  with  her  already  ? " 

"One  has  never  done  with  a  buzzing  insect — !" 

"Until  one  has  literally  killed  it  ?"  Mrs.  Brooken- 
ham  wailed.  "I  can't  take  that  from  you,  my  dear 
man:  it  was  yourself  who  originally  distilled  the  poi 
son  that  courses  through  her  veins."  He  jumped  up  at 

171 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

this  as  if  he  could  n't  bear  it,  presenting  as  he  walked 
across  the  room,  however,  a  large  foolish  fugitive 
back  on  which  her  eyes  rested  as  on  a  proof  of  her 
penetration.  "If  you  spoil  everything  by  trying  to 
deceive  me,  how  can  I  help  you  ? " 

He  had  looked,  in  his  restlessness,  at  a  picture  or 
two,  but  he  finally  turned  round.  "With  whom  is  it 
you  talk  us  over  ?  With  Petherton  and  his  friend 
Mitchy  ?  With  your  adored  Vanderbank  ?  With  your 
awful  Duchess  ? " 

"  You  know  my  little  circle,  and  you  've  not  always 
despised  it."  She  met  him  on  his  return  with  a  figure 
that  had  visibly  flashed  out  for  her.  "Don't  foul  your 
own  nest!  Remember  that  after  all  we  've  more  or  less 
produced  you."  She  had  a  smile  that  attenuated  a 
little  her  image,  for  there  were  things  that  on  a  second 
thought  he  appeared  ready  to  take  from  her.  She 
patted  the  sofa  as  if  to  invite  him  again  to  be  seated, 
and  though  he  still  stood  before  her  it  was  with  a  face 
that  seemed  to  show  how  her  touch  went  home.  "  You 
know  I  've  never  quite  thought  you  do  us  full  honour, 
but  it  was  because  she  took  you  for  one  of  us  that 
Carrie  first — " 

At  this,  to  stop  her,  he  dropped  straight  into  the 
seat.  "I  assure  you  there  has  really  been  nothing." 
With  a  continuation  of  his  fidget  he  pulled  out  his 
watch.  "Won't  she  come  in  at  all  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  Nanda  ?" 

"Talk  me  over  with  her"  he  smiled,  "if  you  like. 
If  you  don't  believe  Mrs.  Donner  is  dust  and  ashes 
to  me,"  he  continued,  "you  do  little  justice  to  your 
daughter." 

172 


MR.  CASHMORE 

"Do  you  wish  to  break  it  to  me  that  you're  in  love 
with  Nanda?" 

He  hesitated,  but  only  as  if  to  give  weight  to  his 
reply.  "Awfully.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  like  her." 

She  wondered.  "And  pray  how  will  that  help  me  ? 
Help  me,  I  mean,  to  help  you.  Is  it  what  I  'm  to  tell 
your  wife  ?" 

He  sat  looking  away,  but  he  evidently  had  his  idea, 
which  he  at  last  produced.  "Why  would  n't  it  be  just 
the  thing  ?  It  would  exactly  prove  my  purity." 

There  might  have  been  in  her  momentary  silence  a 
hint  of  acceptance  of  it  as  a  practical  contribution  to 
their  problem,  and  there  were  indeed  several  lights  in 
which  it  could  be  considered.  Mrs.  Brook,  on  a  quick 
survey,  selected  the  ironic.  "  I  see,  I  see.  I  might  by 
the  same  law  arrange  somehow  that  Lady  Fanny 
should  find  herself  in  love  with  Edward.  That  would 
'prove'  her  purity.  And  you  could  be  quite  at  ease," 
she  laughed  —  "he  would  n't  make  any  presents!" 

Mr.  Cashmore  regarded  her  with  a  candour  that 
was  almost  a  reproach  to  her  mirth.  "I  like  your 
daughter  better  than  I  like  you." 

But  it  only  amused  her  more.  "Is  that  perhaps 
because  /  don't  prove  your  purity  ?" 

What  he  might  have  replied  remained  in  the  air, 
for  the  door  opened  so  exactly  at  the  moment  she 
spoke  that  he  rose  again  with  a  start  and  the  butler, 
coming  in,  received  her  enquiry  full  in  the  face.  This 
functionary's  answer  to  it,  however,  had  no  more 
than  the  usual  austerity.  "Mr.  Vanderbank  and  Mr. 
Longdon." 

These  visitors  took  a  minute  to  appear,  and  Mrs. 

173 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Brook,  not  stirring  —  still  only  looking  from  the  sofa 
calmly  up  at  Mr.  Cashmore  —  used  the  time,  it  might 
have  seemed,  for  correcting  any  impression  of  undue 
levity  made  by  her  recent  question.  "Where  did  you 
last  meet  Nanda  ? " 

He  glanced  at  the  door  to  see  if  he  were  heard.  "At 
the  GrendonsV 

"So  you  do  go  there  ?" 

"  I  went  over  from  Hicks  the  other  day  for  an  hour." 

"And  Carrie  was  there?" 

"Yes.  It  was  a  dreadful  horrid  bore.  But  I  talked 
only  to  your  daughter." 

She  got  up  —  the  others  were  at  hand  —  and  of 
fered  Mr.  Cashmore  an  expression  that  might  have 
struck  him  as  strange.  "It's  serious." 

"  Serious  ? "  —  he  had  no  eyes  for  the  others. 

"She  did  n't  tell  me." 

He  gave  a  sound,  controlled  by  discretion,  which 
sufficed  none  the  less  to  make  Mr.  Longdon  —  be 
holding  him  for  the  first  time  —  receive  it  with  a  little 
of  the  stiffness  of  a  person  greeted  with  a  guffaw.  Mr. 
Cashmore  visibly  liked  this  silence  of  Nanda's  about 
their  meeting. 


II 


MRS.  BROOKENHAM,  who  had  introduced  him  to  the 
elder  of  her  visitors,  had  also  found,  in  serving  these 
gentlemen  with  tea,  a  chance  to  edge  at  him  with  an 
intensity  not  to  be  resisted:  "Talk  to  Mr.  Longdon 
—  take  him  off  there."  She  had  indicated  the  sofa  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  room  and  had  set  him  an 
example  by  possessing  herself,  in  the  place  she  already 
occupied,  of  her  "adored"  Vanderbank.  This  ar 
rangement,  however,  constituted  for  her,  in  her  own 
corner,  as  soon  as  she  had  made  it,  the  ground  of  an 
appeal.  "Will  he  hate  me  any  worse  for  doing  that  ?" 

Vanderbank  glanced  at  the  others.  "Will  Cash- 
more,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Dear  no  —  I  don't  care  whom  he  hates.  But  with 
Mr.  Longdon  I  want  to  avoid  mistakes." 

"Then  don't  try  quite  so  hard!"  Vanderbank 
laughed.  "Is  that  your  reason  for  throwing  him  into 
Cashmore's  arms?" 

"Yes,  precisely  —  so  that  I  shall  have  these  few 
moments  to  ask  you  for  directions:  you  must  know 
him  by  this  time  so  well.  I  only  want,  heaven  help 
me,  to  be  as  nice  to  him  as  I  possibly  can." 

"That's  quite  the  best  thing  for  you  and  alto 
gether  why,  this  afternoon,  I  brought  him:  he  might 
have  better  luck  in  finding  you  —  it  was  he  who  sug 
gested  it  —  than  he  has  had  by  himself.  I  'm  in  a  gen 
eral  way,"  Vanderbank  added,  "watching over  him." 

175 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  see  —  and  he's  watching  over  you."  Mrs. 
Brook's  sweet  vacancy  had  already  taken  in  so  much. 
"He  wants  to  judge  of  what  I  may  be  doing  to  you  — 
he  wants  to  save  you  from  me.  He  quite  detests  me." 

Vanderbank,  with  the  interest  as  well  as  the  amuse 
ment,  fairly  threw  himself  back.  "There's  nobody 
like  you  —  you  're  too  magnificent ! " 

"I  am;  and  that  I  can  look  the  truth  in  the  face 
and  not  be  angry  or  silly  about  it  is,  as  you  know,  the 
one  thing  in  the  world  for  which  I  think  a  bit  well 
of  myself." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  —  I  know;  you're  too  wonder 
ful!" 

Mrs.  Brookenham,  in  a  brief  pause,  completed  her 
covert  consciousness.  "They're  doing  beautifully  — 
he 's  taking  Cashmore  with  a  seriousness ! " 

"And  with  what  is  Cashmore  taking  him  ?" 

"With  the  hope  that  from  one  moment  to  another 
Nanda  may  come  in." 

"But  how  on  earth  does  that  concern  him  ?" 

"Through  an  extraordinary  fancy  he  has  suddenly 
taken  to  her."  Mrs.  Brook  had  been  swift  to  master 
the  facts.  "He  has  been  meeting  her  at  Tishy's, 
and  she  has  talked  to  him  so  effectually  about  his 
behaviour  that  she  has  quite  made  him  cease  to  care 
for  Carrie.  He  prefers  her  now  —  and  of  course  she 's 
much  nicer." 

Vanderbank's  attention,  it  was  clear,  had  now  been 
fully  seized.  "  She 's  much  nicer.  Rather !  What  you 
mean  is,"  he  asked  the  next  moment,  "that  Nanda, 
this  afternoon,  has  been  the  object  of  his  call  ?" 

"Yes  —  really;  though  he  tried  to  keep  it  from  me. 


MR.  CASHMORE 

She  makes  him  feel,"  she  went  on,  "so  innocent  and 
good." 

Her  companion  for  a  moment  said  nothing;  but 
then  at  last:  "And  will  she  come  in  ?" 

"I  have  n't  the  least  idea." 

"  Don't  you  know  where  she  is  ? " 

"  I  suppose  she 's  with  Tishy,  who  has  returned  to 
town." 

Vanderbank  turned  this  over.  "Is  that  your  sys 
tem  now  —  to  ask  no  questions?" 

"Why  should  I  ask  any  —  when  I  want  her  life  to 
be  as  much  as  possible  like  my  own  ?  It's  simply  that 
the  hour  has  struck,  as  you  know.  From  the  moment 
she  is  down  the  only  thing  for  us  is  to  live  as  friends. 
I  think  it's  so  vulgar,"  Mrs.  Brook  sighed,  "not  to 
have  the  same  good  manners  with  one's  children  as 
one  has  with  other  people.  She  asks  me  nothing." 

"Nothing?"  Vanderbank  echoed. 

"Nothing." 

He  paused  again;  after  which,  "It's  very  disgust 
ing!"  he  declared.  Then  while  she  took  it  up  as  he 
had  taken  her  word  of  a  moment  before,  "  It 's  very 
preposterous,"  he  continued. 

Mrs.  Brook  appeared  at  a  loss.  "Do  you  mean  her 
helping  him  ?" 

"It's  not  of  Nanda  I'm  speaking  —  it's  of  him." 
Vanderbank  spoke  with  a  certain  impatience.  "His 
being  with  her  in  any  sort  of  direct  relation  at  all.  His 
mixing  her  up  with  his  other  beastly  affairs." 

Mrs.  Brook  looked  intelligent  and  wan  about  it, 
but  also  perfectly  good-humoured.  "My  dear  man, 
he  and  his  affairs  are  such  twaddle!" 

177 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Vanderbank  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "And  does 
that  make  it  any  better  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook  thought,  but  presently  had  a  light  — 
she  almost  smiled  with  it.  "For  us."  Then  more 
woefully,  "  Don't  you  want  Carrie  to  be  saved  ? "  she 
asked. 

"Why  should  I  ?    Not  a  jot.    Carrie  be  hanged!" 

"But  it's  for  Fanny,"  Mrs.  Brook  protested.  "If 
Carrie  is  rescued  it's  a  pretext  the  less  for  Fanny." 
As  the  young  man  looked  for  an  instant  rather  gloom 
ily  vague  she  softly  quavered:  "I  suppose  you  don't 
positively  want  Fanny  to  bolt  ? " 

"To  bolt?" 

"Surely  I've  not  to  remind  you  at  this  time  of  day 
how  Captain  Dent-Douglas  is  always  round  the  cor 
ner  with  the  post-chaise,  and  how  tight,  on  our  side, 
we're  all  clutching  her." 

"  But  why  not  let  her  go  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook,  at  this,  showed  real  resentment. 
" '  Go '  ?  Then  what  would  become  of  us  ? "  She  re 
called  his  wandering  fancy.  "She 's  the  delight  of  our 
life." 

"Oh!"  Vanderbank  sceptically  murmured. 

"She's  the  ornament  of  our  circle,"  his  compan 
ion  insisted.  "She  will,  she  won't  —  she  won't,  she 
will!  It's  the  excitement,  every  day,  of  plucking 
the  daisy  over."  Vanderbank's  attention,  as  she 
spoke,  had  attached  itself  across  the  room  to  Mr. 
Longdon ;  it  gave  her  thus  an  image  of  the  way  his 
imagination  had  just  seemed  to  her  to  stray,  and  she 
saw  a  reason  in  it  moreover  for  her  coming  up  in 
another  place. 

178 


MR.  CASHMORE 

"Isn't  he  rather  rich?"  She  allowed  the  question 
all  its  effect  of  abruptness. 

Vanderbank  looked  round  at  her.  "Mr.  Longdon  ? 
I  have  n't  the  least  idea." 

"Not  after  becoming  so  intimate?  It's  usually, 
with  people,  the  very  first  thing  I  get  my  impression 
of."  There  came  into  her  face  for  another  glance  at 
their  friend  no  crudity  of  curiosity,  but  an  expression 
more  tenderly  wistful.  "He  must  have  some  mysteri 
ous  box  under  his  bed." 

"Down  in  Suffolk?  —  a  miser's  hoard?  Who 
knows  ?  I  dare  say,"  Vanderbank  went  on.  "  He  is  n't 
a  miser,  but  he  strikes  me  as  careful." 

Mrs.  Brook  meanwhile  had  thought  it  out.  "Then 
he  has  something  to  be  careful  of;  it  would  take  some 
thing  really  handsome  to  inspire  in  a  man  like  him 
that  sort  of  interest.  With  his  small  expenses  all  these 
years  his  savings  must  be  immense.  And  how  could 
he  have  proposed  to  mamma  unless  he  had  originally 
had  money  ? ". 

If  Vanderbank  a  little  helplessly  wondered  he  also 
laughed.  "You  must  remember  your  mother  refused 
him." 

"Ah  but  not  because  there  was  n't  enough." 

"No  —  I  imagine  the  force  of  the  blow  for  him  was 
just  in  the  other  reason." 

"Well,  it  would  have  been  in  that  one  just  as  much 
if  that  one  had  been  the  other."  Mrs.  Brook  was 
sagacious,  though  a  trifle  obscure,  and  she  pursued 
the  next  moment:  "Mamma  was  so  sincere.  The 
fortune  was  nothing  to  her.  That  shows  it  was 
immense." 

179 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"It  could  n't  have  been  as  great  as  your  logic," 
Vanderbank  smiled;  "but  of  course  if  it  has  been 
growing  ever  since — !" 

"  I  can  see  it  grow  while  he  sits  there,"  Mrs.  Brook 
declared.  But  her  logic  had  in  fact  its  own  law,  and 
her  next  transition  was  an  equal  jump.  "It  was  too 
lovely,  the  frankness  of  your  admission  a  minute  ago 
that  I  affect  him  uncannily.  Ah  don't  spoil  it  by  ex 
planations!"  she  beautifully  pleaded:  "he's  not  the 
first  and  he  won't  be  the  last  with  whom  I  shall  not 
have  been  what  they  call  a  combination.  The  only 
thing  that  matters  is  that  I  must  n't,  if  possible,  make 
the  case  worse.  So  you  must  guide  me.  What  is  one 
to  do?" 

Vanderbank,  now  amused  again,  looked  at  her 
kindly.  "  Be  yourself,  my  dear  woman.  Obey  your 
fine  instincts." 

"How  can  you  be,"  she  sweetly  asked,  "so  hide 
ously  hypocritical  ?  You  know  as  well  as  you  sit  there 
that  my  fine  instincts  are  the  thing  in  the  world  you  're 
most  in  terror  of.  '  Be  myself '?"  she  echoed.  'What 
you'd  like  to  say  is:  'Be  somebody  else — that's  your 
only  chance.'  Well,  I  '11  try  —  I  '11  try." 

He  laughed  again,  shaking  his  head.  "Don't  — 
don't." 

"You  mean  it's  too  hopeless  ?  There's  no  way  of 
effacing  the  bad  impression  or  of  starting  a  good 
one  ?"  On  this,  with  a  drop  of  his  mirth,  he  met  her 
eyes,  and  for  an  instant,  through  the  superficial  levity 
of  their  talk,  they  might  have  appeared  to  sound  each 
other.  It  lasted  till  Mrs.  Brook  went  on:  "I  should 
really  like  not  to  lose  him." 

1 80 


MR.  CASHMORE 

Vanderbank  seemed  to  understand  and  at  last  said: 
"I  think  you  won't  lose  him." 

"Do  you  mean  you'll  help  me,  Van,  you  will?" 
Her  voice  had  at  moments  the  most  touching  tones 
of  any  in  England,  and  humble,  helpless,  affectionate, 
she  spoke  with  a  familiarity  of  friendship.  "It's  for 
the  sense  of  the  link  with  mamma,"  she  explained. 
"He's  simply  full  of  her." 

"Oh  I  know.    He's  prodigious." 

"  He  has  told  you  more  —  he  comes  back  to  it  ? " 
Mrs.  Brook  eagerly  asked. 

"Well,"  the  young  man  replied  a  trifle  evasively, 
"we've  had  a  great  deal  of  talk,  and  he's  the  jolliest 
old  boy  possible,  and  in  short  I  like  him." 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  blandly,  "and  he  likes 
you  in  return  as  much  as  he  despises  me.  That  makes 
it  all  right  —  makes  me  somehow  so  happy  for  you. 
There's  something  in  him  —  what  is  it  ?  —  that  sug 
gests  the  oncle  d'Amerique,  the  eccentric  benefactor, 
the  fairy  godrnother.  He's  a  little  of  an  old  woman 
—  but  all  the  better  for  it."  She  hung  fire  but  an 
instant  before  she  pursued:  "What  can  we  make 
him  do  for  you  ?" 

Vanderbank  at  this  was  very  blank.  "Do  for 
me?" 

"How  can  any  one  love  you,"  she  asked,  "without 
wanting  to  show  it  in  some  way  ?  You  know  all  the 
ways,  dear  Van,"  she  breathed,  "  in  which  /  want  to 
show  it." 

He  might  have  known  them,  something  suddenly 
fixed  in  his  face  appeared  to  say,  but  they  were  not 
what  was,  on  this  speech  of  hers,  most  immediately 

181 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

present  to  him.    "That  for  instance  is  the  tone  not 
to  take  with  him." 

"There  you  are ! "  she  sighed  with  discouragement. 
"Well,  only  tell  me."  Then  as  he  said  nothing:  "I 
must  be  more  like  mamma  ?" 

His  expression  confessed  to  his  feeling  an  awkward 
ness.  "You're  perhaps  not  quite  enough  like  her." 

"Oh  I  know  that  if  he  deplores  me  as  I  am  now 
she  would  have  done  so  quite  as  much;  in  fact  prob 
ably,  as  seeing  it  nearer,  a  good  deal  more.  She'd 
have  despised  me  even  more  than  he.  But  if  it's  a 
question,"  Mrs.  Brook  went  on,  "of  not  saying  what 
mamma  would  n't,  how  can  I  know,  don't  you  see, 
what  she  would  have  said  ?"  Mrs.  Brook  became  as 
wonderful  as  if  she  saw  in  her  friend's  face  some  ad 
miring  reflexion  of  the  fine  freedom  of  mind  that  — 
in  such  a  connexion  quite  as  much  as  in  any  other  — 
she  could  always  show.  "Of  course  I  revere  mamma 
just  as  much  as  he  does,  and  there  was  everything 
in  her  to  revere.  But  she  was  none  the  less  in  every 
way  a  charming  woman  too,  and  I  don't  know,  after 
all,  do  I  ?  what  even  she  —  in  their  peculiar  relation 
—  may  not  have  said  to  him." 

Vanderbank's  laugh  came  back.  "Very  good  — 
very  good.  I  return  to  my  first  idea.  Try  with  him 
whatever  comes  into  your  head.  You're  a  woman 
of  genius  after  all,  and  genius  mostly  justifies  itself. 
To  make  you  right,"  he  went  on  pleasantly  and  inex 
orably,  "  might  perhaps  be  to  make  you  wrong.  Since 
you  have  so  great  a  charm  trust  it  not  at  all  or  all  in 
all.  That,  I  dare  say,  is  all  you  can  do.  Therefore  — 
yes  —  be  yourself." 

182 


MR.  CASHMORE 

These  remarks  were  followed  on  either  side  by  the 
repetition  of  a  somewhat  intenser  mutual  gaze,  though 
indeed  the  speaker's  eyes  had  more  the  air  of  meeting 
his  friend's  than  of  seeking  them.  "I  can't  be  you 
certainly,  Van,"  Mrs.  Brook  sadly  brought  forth. 

"I  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  he  rejoined  in 
a  moment.  "You  mean  I'm  hypocritical." 

"  Hypocritical  ? " 

"I'm  diplomatic  and  calculating  —  I  don't  show 
him  how  bad  I  am;  whereas  with  you  he  knows  the 
worst." 

Of  this  observation  Mrs.  Brook,  whose  eyes  attached 
themselves  again  to  Mr.  Longdon,  took  at  first  no 
further  notice  than  might  have  been  indicated  by  the 
way  it  set  her  musing.  "'Calculating'?"  —  she  at 
last  took  him  up.  "On  what  is  there  to  calculate  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Vanderbank,  "if,  as  you  just  hinted, 
he's  a  blessing  in  disguise — !  I  perfectly  admit," 
he  resumed,  "  that  I  'm  capable  of  sacrifices  to  keep 
on  good  terms  with  him." 

"You're  not  afraid  he'll  bore  you?" 

"Oh  yes  —  distinctly." 

"But  he'll  be  worth  it?  Then,"  Mrs.  Brook  said 
as  he  appeared  to  assent,  "he'll  be  worth  a  great 
deal."  She  continued  to  watch  Mr.  Longdon,  who, 
without  his  glasses,  stared  straight  at  the  floor  while 
Mr.  Cashmore  talked  to  him.  She  pursued,  however, 
dispassionately  enough:  "He  must  be  of  a  narrow 
ness—!" 

"Oh  beautiful!" 

She  was  silent  again.   "I  shall  broaden  him.  You 


won't." 


183 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Heaven  forbid ! "  Vanderbank  heartily  concurred. 
"But  none  the  less,  as  I've  said,  I'll  help  you." 

Her  attention  was  still  fixed.  "  It  will  be  him  you  '11 
help.  If  you  're  to  make  sacrifices  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  him  the  first  sacrifice  will  be  of  me."  Then 
on  his  leaving  this  remark  so  long  unanswered  that 
she  had  finally  looked  at  him  again :  "I'm  perfectly 
prepared  for  it." 

It  was  as  if,  jocosely  enough,  he  had  had  time  to 
make  up  his  mind  how  to  meet  her.  "What  will  you 
have  —  when  he  loved  my  mother  ? " 

Nothing  could  have  been  droller  than  the  gloom 
of  her  surprise.  "Yours  too  ?" 

"  I  did  n't  tell  you  the  other  day  —  out  of  delicacy." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  darkly  thought.  "He  did  n't  tell 
me  either." 

"The  same  consideration  deterred  him.  But  if 
I  did  n't  speak  of  it,"  Vanderbank  continued,  "when 
I  arranged  with  you,  after  meeting  him  here  at  dinner, 
that  you  should  come  to  tea  with  him  at  my  rooms 
—  if  I  did  n't  mention  it  then  it  was  n't  because  I 
had  n't  learnt  it  early." 

Mrs.  Brook  more  deeply  sounded  this  affair,  but 
she  spoke  with  the  exaggerated  mildness  that  was 
the  form  mostly  taken  by  her  gaiety.  "  It  was  because 
of  course  it  makes  him  out  such  a  wretch!  What 
becomes  in  that  case  of  his  loyalty  ? " 

"To  your  mother's  memory  ?  Oh  it's  all  right  — 
he  has  it  quite  straight.  She  came  later.  Mine,  after 
my  father's  death,  had  refused  him.  But  you  see  he 
might  have  been  my  stepfather." 

Mrs.  Brookenham  took  it  in,  but  she  had  suddenly 
184 


MR.  CASHMORE 

a  brighter  light.  "He  might  have  been  my  own 
father!  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "if  his  line  is  to  love 
the  mothers  why  on  earth  does  n't  he  love  me  ?  I  'm 
in  all  conscience  enough  of  one." 

"Ah  but  is  n't  there  in  your  case  the  fact  of  a  daugh 
ter?"  Vanderbank  asked  with  a  slight  embarrass 
ment. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  stared.  "What  good  does  that 
do  me?" 

"Why,  did  n't  she  tell  you?" 

"Nanda  ?  She  told  me  he  does  n't  like  her  any 
better  than  he  likes  me." 

Vanderbank  in  his  turn  showed  surprise.  "That's 
really  what  she  said  ?" 

"She  had  on  her  return  from  your  rooms  a  most 
unusual  fit  of  frankness,  for  she  generally  tells  me 
nothing." 

"Well,"  said  Vanderbank,  "how  did  she  put  it?" 

Mrs.  Brook  reflected  —  recovered  it.  "'I  like  him 
awfully,  but  I  'm  not  in  the  least  his  idea.' ' 

"His  idea  of  what?" 

"That's  just  what  I  asked  her.  Of  the  proper 
grandchild  for  mamma." 

Vanderbank  hesitated.  "Well,  she  is  n't."  Then 
after  another  pause:  "But  she'll  do." 

His  companion  gave  him  a  deep  look.  "You'll 
make  her  ?" 

He  got  up,  and  on  seeing  him  move  Mr.  Longdon 
also  rose,  so  that,  facing  each  other  across  the  room, 
they  exchanged  a  friendly  signal  or  two.  "I'll  make 
her." 


Ill 


THEIR  hostess's  account  of  Mr.  Cashmore's  motive 
for  his  staying  on  was  so  far  justified  as  that  Vander- 
bank,  while  Mr.  Longdon  came  over  to  Mrs.  Brook, 
appeared  without  difficulty  further  to  engage  him. 
The  lady  in  question  meanwhile  had  drawn  her  old 
friend  down,  and  her  present  method  of  approach 
would  have  interested  an  observer  aware  of  the  un 
happy  conviction  she  had  just  privately  expressed. 
Some  trace  indeed  of  the  glimpse  of  it  enjoyed  by  Mr. 
Cashmore's  present  interlocutor  might  have  been 
detected  in  the  restlessness  that  Vanderbank's  desire 
to  keep  the  other  pair  uninterrupted  was  still  not  able 
to  banish  from  his  attitude.  Not,  however,  that  Mrs. 
Brook  took  the  smallest  account  of  it  as  she  quickly 
broke  out:  "How  can  we  thank  you  enough,  my  dear 
man,  for  your  extraordinary  kindness  ?"  The  refer 
ence  was  vivid,  yet  Mr.  Longdon  looked  so  blank 
about  it  that  she  had  immediately  to  explain.  "I 
mean  to  dear  Van,  who  has  told  us  of  your  giving 
him  the  great  happiness  —  unless  he  's  too  dread 
fully  mistaken  —  of  letting  him  really  know  you. 
He's  such  a  tremendous  friend  of  ours  that  nothing 
so  delightful  can  befall  him  without  its  affecting  us  in 
the  same  way."  She  had  proceeded  with  confidence, 
but  suddenly  she  pulled  up.  "Don't  tell  me  he  is 
mistaken  —  I  should  n't  be  able  to  bear  it."  She 
challenged  the  pale  old  man  with  a  loveliness  that  was 

186 


MR.  CASHMORE 

for  the  moment  absolutely  juvenile.  "Are  n't  you 
letting  him  —  really  ?" 

Mr.  Longdon's  smile  was  queer.  "  I  can't  prevent 
him.  I  'm  not  a  great  house  —  to  give  orders  to  go 
over  me.  The  kindness  is  Mr.  Vanderbank's  own, 
and  I  've  taken  up,  I  'm  afraid,  a  great  deal  of  his 
precious  time." 

"You  have  indeed."  Mrs.  Brook  was  undiscour- 
aged.  "He  has  been  talking  with  me  just  now  of 
nothing  else.  You  may  say,"  she  went  on,  "that 
it's  I  who  have  kept  him  at  it.  So  I  have,  for  his 
pleasure's  a  joy  to  us.  If  you  can't  prevent  what  he 
feels,  you  know,  you  can't  prevent  either  what  we 
feel." 

Mr.  Longdon's  face  reflected  for  a  minute  some 
thing  he  could  scarcely  have  supposed  her  acute 
enough  to  make  out,  the  struggle  between  his  real 
mistrust  of  her,  founded  on  the  unconscious  violence 
offered  by  her  nature  to  his  every  memory  of  her 
mother,  and  his  sense  on  the  other  hand  of  the  high 
propriety  of  his  liking  her;  to  which  latter  force  his 
interest  in  Vanderbank  was  a  contribution,  inasmuch 
as  he  was  obliged  to  recognise  on  the  part  of  the  pair 
an  alliance  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  explain  at 
Beccles.  "Perhaps  I  don't  quite  see  the  value  of  what 
your  husband  and  you  and  I  are  in  a  position  to  do 
for  him." 

"Do  you  mean  because  he's  himself  so  clever?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  "I  dare  say  that's  at 
the  bottom  of  my  feeling  so  proud  to  be  taken  up  by 
him.  I  think  of  the  young  men  of  my  time  and  see 
that  he  takes  in  more.  But  that's  what  you  all  do," 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

he  rather  helplessly  sighed.   "You're  very,  very  won 
derful!" 

She  met  him  with  an  almost  extravagant  eagerness 
that  the  meeting  should  be  just  where  he  wished.  "  I 
don't  take  in  everything,  but  I  take  in  all  I  can. 
That's  a  great  affair  in  London  to-day,  and  I  often 
feel  as  if  I  were  a  circus-woman,  in  pink  tights  and  no 
particular  skirts,  riding  half  a  dozen  horses  at  once. 
We're  all  in  the  troupe  now,  I  suppose,"  she  smiled, 
"and  we  must  travel  with  the  show.  But  when  you 
say  we're  different,"  she  added,  "think,  after  all,  of 
mamma." 

Mr.  Longdon  stared.  "It's  from  her  you  are  dif 
ferent." 

"Ah  but  she  had  an  awfully  fine  mind.  We're  not 
cleverer  than  she." 

His  conscious  honest  eyes  looked  away  an  instant. 
"It's  perhaps  enough  for  the  present  that  you're 
cleverer  than  I!  I  was  very  glad  the  other  day,"  he 
continued,  "to  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  daugh 
ter.  I  hoped  I  should  find  her  with  you." 

If  Mrs.  Brook  cast  about  it  was  but  for  a  few  sec 
onds.  "  If  she  had  known  you  were  coming  she  would 
certainly  have  been  here.  She  wanted  so  to  please 
you."  Then  as  her  visitor  took  no  further  notice  of  this 
speech  than  to  ask  if  Nanda  were  out  of  the  house 
she  had  to  admit  it  as  an  aggravation  of  failure; 
but  she  pursued  in  the  next  breath  :  "  Of  course  you 
won't  care,  but  she  raves  about  you." 

He  appeared  indeed  at  first  not  to  care.  "  Is  n't  she 
eighteen  ?"  —  it  was  oddly  abrupt. 

"I  have  to  think.  Would  n't  it  be  nearer  twenty  ?" 
188 


MR.  CASHMORE 

Mrs.  Brook  audaciously  returned.  She  tried  again. 
"  She  told  me  all  about  your  interview.  I  stayed  away 
on  purpose  —  I  had  my  idea." 

"And  what  was  your  idea  ?" 

"  I  thought  she  'd  remind  you  more  of  mamma  if 
I  was  n't  there.  But  she 's  a  little  person  who  sees. 
Perhaps  you  did  n't  think  it,  but  she  knew."  - 

"And  what  did  she  know?"  asked  Mr.  Longdon, 
who  was  unable,  however,  to  keep  from  his  tone  a  cer 
tain  coldness  which  really  deprived  the  question  of  its 
proper  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Brook  just  showed  the  chill  of  it,  but  she  had 
always  her  courage.  "Why  that  you  don't  like  her." 
She  had  the  courage  of  carrying  off  as  well  as  of  back 
ing  out.  "  She  too  has  her  little  place  with  the  circus 
—  it's  the  way  we  earn  our  living." 

Mr.  Longdon  said  nothing  for  a  moment  and  when 
he  at  last  spoke  it  was  almost  with  an  air  of  contra 
diction.  "She's  your  mother  to  the  life." 

His  hostess,  for  three  seconds,  looked  at  him  hard. 
"Ah  but  with  such  differences!  You'll  lose  it,"  she 
added  with  a  headshake  of  pity. 

He  had  his  eyes  only  on  Vanderbank.  "Well,  my 
losses  are  my  own  affair."  Then  his  face  came  back. 
"Did  she  tell  you  I  did  n't  like  her  ?'/ 

The  indulgence  in  Mrs.  Brook's  view  of  his  sim 
plicity  was  marked.  "You  thought  you  succeeded  so 
in  hiding  it  ?  No  matter  —  she  bears  up.  I  think  she 
really  feels  a  great  deal  as  I  do  —  that  it's  no  matter 
how  many  of  us  you  hate  if  you  '11  only  go  on  feeling 
as  you  do  about  mamma.  Show  us  that  —  that 's 
what  we  want." 

189 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Nothing  could  have  expressed  more  the  balm  of 
reassurance,  but  the  mild  drops  had  fallen  short  of 
the  spot  to  which  they  were  directed.  "'Show' 
you?" 

Oh  how  he  had  sounded  the  word !  "  I  see  —  you 
</o«'/show.  That's  just  what  Nanda  saw  you  thought! 
But  you  can't  keep  us  from  knowing  it  —  can't  keep 
it  in  fact,  I  think,  from  affecting  your  own  behaviour. 
You  'd  be  much  worse  to  us  if  it  was  n't  for  the  still 
warm  ashes  of  your  old  passion."  It  was  an  immense 
pity  for  Vanderbank's  amusement  that  he  was  at  this 
moment  too  far  off  to  fit  to  the  expression  of  his  old 
friend's  face  so  much  of  the  cause  of  it  as  had  sprung 
from  the  deeply  informed  tone  of  Mrs.  Brook's  al 
lusion.  To  what  degree  the  speaker  herself  made  the 
connexion  will  never  be  known  to  history,  nor 
whether  as  she  went  on  she  thought  she  bettered  her 
case  or  she  simply  lost  her  head.  "The  great  thing 
for  us  is  that  we  can  never  be  for  you  quite  like  other 
ordinary  people." 

"And  what's  the  great  thing  for  me?" 

"Oh  for  you,  there 's  nothing,  I  'm  afraid,  but  small 
things  —  so  small  that  they  can  scarcely  be  worth 
the  trouble  of  your  making  them  out.  Our  being  so 
happy  that  you've  come  back  to  us  —  if  only  just 
for  a  glimpse  and  to  leave  us  again,  in  no  matter  what 
horror,  for  ever;  our  positive  delight  in  your  being 
exactly  so  different;  the  pleasure  we  have  in  talking 
about  you,  and  shall  still  have  —  or  indeed  all  the 
more  —  even  if  we  've  seen  you  only  to  lose  you : 
whatever  all  this  represents  for  ourselves  it 's  for  none 
of  us  to  pretend  to  say  how  much  or  how  little  you 

190 


MR.  CASHMORE 

may  pick  out  of  it.  And  yet,"  Mrs.  Brook  wandered 
on,  "however  much  we  may  disappoint  you  some 
little  spark  of  the  past  can't  help  being  in  us  —  for 
the  past  is  the  one  thing  beyond  all  spoiling:  there 
it  is,  don't  you  think  ?  —  to  speak  for  itself  and,  if 
need  be,  only  of  itself."  She  pulled  up,  but  she  ap 
peared  to  have  destroyed  all  power  of  speech  in  him, 
so  that  while  she  waited  she  had  time  for  a  fresh  in 
spiration.  It  might  perhaps  frankly  have  been  men 
tioned  as  on  the  whole  her  finest.  "Don't  you  think 
it  possible  that  if  you  once  get  the  point  of  view  of 
realising  that  I  know  —  ? " 

She  held  the  note  so  long  that  he  at  last  supplied 
a  sound.  "That  you  know  what?" 

"  Why  that  compared  with  her  I  'm  a  poor  creeping 
thing.  I  mean  "  —  she  hastened  to  forestall  any  pro 
test  of  mere  decency  that  would  spoil  her  idea  — 
"that  of  course  I  ache  in  every  limb  with  the  certainty 
of  my  dreadful  difference.  It  is  n't  as  if  I  did  n't 
know  it,  don't  you  see  ?  There  it  is  as  a  matter  of 
course:  I've  helplessly  but  finally  and  completely 
accepted  it.  Won't  that  help  you  ?"  she  so  ingeniously 
pleaded.  "It  is  n't  as  if  I  tormented  you  with  any 
recall  of  her  whatever.  I  can  quite  see  how  awful  it 
would  be  for  you  if,  with  the  effect  I  produce  on  you, 
I  did  have  her  lovely  eyes  or  her  distinguished  nose 
or  the  shape  of  her  forehead  or  the  colour  of  her  hair. 
Strange  as  it  is  in  a  daughter  I  'm  disconnected  alto 
gether,  and  don't  you  think  I  may  be  a  little  saved  for 
you  by  becoming  thus  simply  out  of  the  question  ? 
Of  course,"  she  continued,  "your  real  trial  is  poor 
Nanda  —  she 's  likewise  so  fearfully  out  of  it  and  yet 

191 


she's  so  fearfully  in  it.  And  she,"  said  Mrs.  Brook 
for  a  climax  —  " she  does  n't  know!" 

A  strange  faint  flush,  while  she  talked,  had  come 
into  Mr.  Longdon's  face,  and,  whatever  effect,  as  she 
put  it,  she  produced  on  him,  it  was  clearly  not  that 
of  causing  his  attention  to  wander.  She  held  him  at 
least  for  weal  or  woe;  his  bright  eyes  grew  brighter 
and  opened  into  a  stare  that  finally  seemed  to  offer 
him  as  submerged  in  mere  wonder.  At  last,  however, 
he  rose  to  the  surface,  and  he  appeared  to  have  lighted 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  on  the  pearl  of  the  particular 
wisdom  he  needed.  "I  dare  say  there  may  be  some 
thing  in  what  you  so  extraordinarily  suggest." 

She  jumped  at  it  as  if  in  pleasant  pain.  "In  just 
letting  me  go  —  ? " 

But  at  this  he  dropped.   "I  shall  never  let  you  go." 

It  renewed  her  fear.    "Not  just  for  what  I  am?" 

He  rose  from  his  place  beside  her,  but  looking 
away  from  her  and  with  his  colour  marked.  "I  shall 
never  let  you  go,"  he  repeated. 

"Oh  you  angel!"  She  sprang  up  more  quickly  and 
the  others  were  by  this  time  on  their  feet.  "  I  've  done 
it,  I've  done  it!"  she  joyously  cried  to  Vanderbank; 
"he  likes  me,  or  at  least  he  can  bear  me  —  I  've  found 
him  the  way;  and  now  I  don't  care  even  if  he  says 
I  have  n't."  Then  she  turned  again  to  her  old  friend. 
"We  can  manage  about  Nanda  —  you  need  n't  ever 
see  her.  She's  'down'  now,  but  she  can  go  up  again. 
We  can  arrange  it  at  any  rate  —  cest  la  moindre  des 
choses." 

"Upon  my  honour  I  protest,"  Mr.  Cashmore  ex 
claimed,  "against  anything  of  the  sort !  I  defy  you  to 

192 


MR.  CASHMORfc 

*  arrange*  that  young  lady  in  any  such  manner  with 
out  also  arranging  me.  I'm  one  of  her  greatest 
admirers,"  he  gaily  announced  to  Mr.  Longdon. 

Vanderbank  said  nothing,  and  Mr.  Longdon 
seemed  to  show  he  would  have  preferred  to  do  the 
same:  that  visitor's  eyes  might  have  represented  an 
appeal  to  him  somehow  to  intervene,  to  show  the  due 
acquaintance,  springing  from  practice  and  wanting  in 
himself,  with  the  art  of  conversation  developed  to  the 
point  at  which  it  could  thus  sustain  a  lady  in  the  upper 
air.  Vanderbank's  silence  might,  without  his  mere 
kind  pacific  look,  have  seemed  almost  inhuman.  Poor 
Mr.  Longdon  had  finally  to  do  his  own  simple  best. 
"  Will  you  bring  your  daughter  to  see  me  ? "  he  asked 
of  Mrs.  Brookenham. 

"Oh,  oh  —  that's  an  idea:  will  you  bring  her  to 
see  me?"  Mr.  Cashmore  again  broke  out. 

Mrs.  Brook  had  only  fixed  Mr.  Longdon  with  the 
air  of  unutterable  things.  "You  angel,  you  angel!" 
—  they  found  expression  but  in  that. 

"/  don't  need  to  ask  you  to  bring  her,  do  I  ?"  Van 
derbank  now  said  to  his  hostess.  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  bragging  all  over  the  place  of  the  great 
honour  she  did  me  the  other  day  in  appearing  quite 
by  herself." 

"Quite  by  herself?  I  say,  Mrs.  Brook!"  Mr. 
Cashmore  flourished  on. 

It  was  only  now  that  she  noticed  him ;  which  she 
did  indeed  but  by  answering  Vanderbank.  "She 
did  n't  go  for  you,  I  'm  afraid  —  though  of  course  she 
might:  she  went  because  you  had  promised  her  Mr. 
Longdon.  But  I  should  have  no  more  feeling  about 

193 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

her  going  to  you  —  and  should  expect  her  to  have  no 
more  —  than  about  her  taking  a  pound  of  tea,  as  she 
sometimes  does,  to  her  old  nurse,  or  her  going  to  read 
to  the  old  women  at  the  workhouse.  May  you  never 
have  less  to  brag  of ! " 

"  I  wish  she  'd  bring  me  a  pound  of  tea ! "  Mr. 
Cashmore  resumed.  "Or  ain't  I  enough  of  an  old 
woman  for  her  to  come  and  read  to  me  at  home  ? " 

"Does  she  habitually  visit  the  workhouse?"  Mr. 
Longdon  enquired  of  Mrs.  Brook. 

This  lady  kept  him  in  a  moment's  suspense,  which 
another  contemplation  might  moreover  have  detected 
that  Vanderbank  in  some  degree  shared.  "Every 
Friday  at  three." 

Vanderbank,  with  a  sudden  turn,  moved  straight  to 
one  of  the  windows,  and  Mr.  Cashmore  had  a  happy 
remembrance.  "Why,  this  is  Friday — she  must  have 
gone  to-day.  But  does  she  stay  so  late  ?'* 

"She  was  to  go  afterwards  to  little  Aggie:  I'm  try 
ing  so,  in  spite  of  difficulties,"  Mrs.  Brook  explained, 
"to  keep  them  on  together."  She  addressed  herself 
with  a  new  thought  to  Mr.  Longdon.  "You  must 
know  little  Aggie  —  the  niece  of  the  Duchess:  I  for 
get  if  you  've  met  the  Duchess,  but  you  must  know 
her  too  —  there  are  so  many  things  on  which  I  'm  sure 
she  '11  feel  with  you.  Little  Aggie 's  the  one,"  she  con 
tinued;  "you'll  delight  in  her;  she  ought  to  have 
been  mamma's  grandchild." 

"Dearest  lady,  how  can  you  pretend  or  for  a  mo 
ment  compare  her  —  ? "  Mr.  Cashmore  broke  in. 
"She  says  nothing  to  me  at  all." 

"She  says  nothing  to  any  one,"  Mrs.  Brook  se- 
194 


MR.  CASHMORE 

renely  replied;  "that's  just  her  type  and  her  charm 
—  just  above  all  her  education."  Then  she  appealed 
to  Vanderbank.  "Won't  Mr.  Longdon  be  struck 
with  little  Aggie  and  won't  he  find  it  interesting  to 
talk  about  all  that  sort  of  thing  with  the  Duchess  ? " 

Vanderbank  came  back  laughing,  but  Mr.  Longdon 
anticipated  his  reply.  "What  sort  of  thing  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "the  whole  question,  don't 
you  know  ?  of  bringing  girls  forward  or  not.  The 
question  of  —  well,  what  do  you  call  it?  —  their  ex 
posure.  It's  the  question,  it  appears  —  the  question 
of  the  future;  it's  awfully  interesting  and  the  Duchess 
at  any  rate  is  great  on  it.  Nanda  of  course  is  exposed," 
Mrs.  Brook  pursued  —  "fearfully." 

"And  what  on  earth  is  she  exposed  to  ? "  Mr.  Cash- 
more  gaily  demanded. 

"She's  exposed  to  you,  it  would  seem,  my  dear 
fellow!"  Vanderbank  spoke  with  a  certain  discern 
ible  impatience  not  so  much  of  the  fact  he  mentioned 
as  of  the  turn  of  their  talk. 

It  might  have  been  in  almost  compassionate  depre 
cation  of  this  weak  note  that  Mrs.  Brookenham 
looked  at  him.  Her  own  reply  to  Mr.  Cashmore's 
question,  however,  was  uttered  at  Mr.  Longdon. 
"She's  exposed  —  it's  much  worse  —  to  me.  But 
Aggie  is  n't  exposed  to  anything  —  never  has  been 
and  never  is  to  be;  and  we're  watching  to  see  if  the 
Duchess  can  carry  it  through." 

"Why  not,"  asked  Mr.  Cashmore,  "if  there's  no 
thing  she  can  be  exposed  to  but  the  Duchess  herself  ? " 

He  had  appealed  to  his  companions  impartially, 

195 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

but  Mr.  Longdon,  whose  attention  was  now  all  for 
his  hostess,  appeared  unconscious.  "If  you're  all 
watching  is  it  your  idea  that  I  should  watch  with 
you?" 

The  enquiry,  on  his  lips,  was  a  waft  of  cold  air,  the 
sense  of  which  clearly  led  Mrs.  Brook  to  put  her  in 
vitation  on  the  right  ground.  "Not  of  course  on  the 
chance  of  anything's  happening  to  the  dear  child  — 
to  whom  nothing  obviously  can  happen  but  that  her 
aunt  will  marry  her  off  in  the  shortest  possible  time 
and  in  the  best  possible  conditions.  No,  the  interest 
is  much  more  in  the  way  the  Duchess  herself  steers." 

"Ah,  she's  in  a  boat,"  Mr.  Cashmore  fully  con 
curred,  "  that  will  take  a  good  bit  of  that." 

It  is  not  for  Mr.  Longdon's  historian  to  overlook 
that  if  he  was,  not  unnaturally,  mystified  he  was  yet 
also  visibly  interested.  "What  boat  is  she  in?" 

He  had  addressed  his  curiosity,  with  politeness,  to 
Mr.  Cashmore,  but  they  were  all  arrested  by  the 
wonderful  way  in  which  Mrs.  Brook  managed  to 
smile  at  once  very  dimly,  very  darkly,  and  yet  make 
it  take  them  all  in.  "I  think  you  must  tell  him,  Van." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  —  and  Van  again  retreated. 

"/'ll  tell  him  like  a  shot  —  if  you  really  give  me 
leave,"  said  Mr.  Cashmore,  for  whom  any  scruple 
referred  itself  manifestly  not  to  the  subject  of  the 
information  but  to  the  presence  of  a  lady. 

"I  don't  give  you  leave  and  I  beg  you'll  hold  your 
tongue,"  Mrs.  Brookenham  returned.  "You  handle 
such  matters  with  a  minuteness  — !  In  short,"  she 
broke  off  to  Mr.  Longdon,  "  he  would  tell  you  a  good 
deal  more  than  you  '11  care  to  know.  She  is  in  a  boat 

196 


MR.  CASHMORE 

—  but  she 's  an  experienced  mariner.  Basta,  as  she 
would  say.  Do  you  know  Mitchy  ? "  Mrs.  Brook 
suddenly  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  he  knows  Mitchy" — Vanderbank  had 
approached  again. 

"Then  make  him  tell  him"  —  she  put  it  before  the 
young  man  as  a  charming  turn  for  them  all.  "  Mitchy 
can  be  refined  when  he  tries." 

"Oh  dear  —  when  Mitchy  'tries'!"  Vanderbank 
laughed.  "I  think  I  should  rather,  for  the  job,  offer 
him  to  Mr.  Longdon  abandoned  to  his  native  wild 
impulse." 

"I  like  Mr.  Mitchett,"  the  old  man  said,  endeav 
ouring  to  look  his  hostess  straight  in  the  eye  and 
speaking  as  if  somewhat  to  defy  her  to  convict  him, 
even  from  the  point  of  view  of  Beccles,  of  a  mis 
take. 

Mrs.  Brookenham  took  it  with  a  wonderful  bright 
emotion.  "  My  dear  friend,  vous  me  render  la  vie  !  If 
you  can  stand  Mitchy  you  can  stand  any  of  us ! " 

"Upon  my  honour  I  should  think  so!"  Mr.  Cash- 
more  was  eager  to  remark.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
mean,"  he  demanded  of  Mrs.  Brook,  "by  saying  that 
I'm  more  'minute'  than  he?" 

She  turned  her  beauty  an  instant  on  this  critic.  "I 
don't  say  you're  more  minute  —  I  say  he's  more 
brilliant.  Besides,  as  I  've  told  you  before,  you  're  not 
one  of  us."  With  which,  as  a  check  to  further  dis 
cussion,  she  went  straight  on  to  Mr.  Longdon:  "The 
point  about  Aggie's  conservative  education  is  the 
wonderful  sincerity  with  which  the  Duchess  feels 
that  one's  girl  may  so  perfectly  and  consistently  be 

197 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

hedged  in  without  one's  really  ever  (for  it  comes  to 
that)  depriving  one's  own  self  — " 

"Well,  of  what?"  Mr.  Longdon  boldly  demanded 
while  his  hostess  appeared  thoughtfully  to  falter. 

She  addressed  herself  mutely  to  Vanderbank,  in 
whom  the  movement  produced  a  laugh.  "I  defy 
you,"  he  exclaimed,  "to  say!" 

"Well,  you  don't  defy  me!"  Mr.  Cashmore  cried  as 
Mrs.  Brook  failed  to  take  up  the  challenge.  "If  you 
know  Mitchy,"  he  went  on  to  Mr.  Longdon,  "you 
must  know  Petherton." 

The  elder  man  remained  vague  and  not  imper 
ceptibly  cold.  "  Petherton  ? " 

"My  brother-in-law  —  whom,  God  knows  why, 
Mitchy  runs." 

"Runs?"  Mr.  Longdon  again  echoed. 

Mrs.  Brook  appealed  afresh  to  Vanderbank.  "I 
think  we  ought  to  spare  him.  I  may  not  remind  you  of 
mamma,"  she  continued  to  their  companion,  "but  I 
hope  you  don't  mind  my  saying  how  much  you  remind 
me.  Explanations,  after  all,  spoil  things,  and  if  you 
can  make  anything  of  us  and  will  sometimes  come 
back  you'll  find  everything  in  its  native  freshness. 
You'll  see,  you'll  feel  for  yourself." 

Mr.  Longdon  stood  before  her  and  raised  to 
Vanderbank,  when  she  had  ceased,  the  eyes  he  had 
attached  to  the  carpet  while  she  talked.  "And  must 
I  go  now?"  Explanations,  she  had  said,  spoiled 
things,  but  he  might  have  been  a  stranger  at  an 
Eastern  court  —  comically  helpless  without  his  in 
terpreter. 

"If  Mrs.  Brook  desires  to  'spare'  you,"  Vander- 
198 


MR.  CASHMORE 

bank  kindly  replied,  "the  best  way  to  make  sure  of  it 
would  perhaps  indeed  be  to  remove  you.  But  had  n't 
we  a  hope  of  Nanda  ? " 

"It  might  be  of  use  for  us  to  wait  for  her  ?"  —  it 
was  still  to  his  young  friend  that  Mr.  Longdon  put  it. 

"Ah  when  she's  once  on  the  loose  — !"  Mrs. 
Brookenham  sighed.  "Unless  la  voila"  she  said  as  a 
hand  was  heard  at  the  door-latch.  It  was  only,  how 
ever,  a  footman  who  entered  with  a  little  tray  that,  on 
his  approaching  his  mistress,  offered  to  sight  the 
brown  envelope  of  a  telegram.  She  immediately  took 
leave  to  open  this  missive,  after  the  quick  perusal  of 
which  she  had  another  vision  of  them  all.  "  It  is  she 
—  the  modern  daughter.  'Tishy  keeps  me  dinner  and 
opera;  clothes  all  right;  return  uncertain,  but  if 
before  morning  have  latch-key.'  She  won't  come 
home  till  morning!"  said  Mrs.  Brook. 

"But  think  of  the  comfort  of  the  latch-key!" 
Vanderbank  laughed.  "You  might  go  to  the  opera," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Longdon. 

"  Hanged  if  7  don't ! "  Mr.  Cashmore  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Longdon  appeared  to  have  caught  from 
Nanda's  message  an  obscure  agitation;  he  met  his 
young  friend's  suggestion  at  all  events  with  a  visible 
intensity.  "  Will  you  go  with  me  ? " 

Vanderbank  had  just  debated,  recalling  engage 
ments;  which  gave  Mrs.  Brook  time  to  intervene. 
"Can't  you  live  without  him  ?"  she  asked  of  her  elder 
friend. 

Vanderbank  had  looked  at  her  an  instant.  "I 
think  I  can  get  there  late,"  he  then  replied  to  Mr. 
Longdon. 

199 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  think  /  can  get  there  early,"  Mr.  Cashmore 
declared.  "Mrs.  Grendon  must  have  a  box;  in 
fact  I  know  which,  and  they  don't,"  he  jocosely 
continued  to  his  hostess. 

Mrs.  Brook  meanwhile  had  given  Mr.  Longdon 
her  hand.  "Well,  in  any  case  the  child  shall  soon 
come  to  you.  And  oh  alone,"  she  insisted:  "you 
need  n't  make  phrases  —  I  know  too  well  what  I  'm 
about." 

"One  hopes  really  you  do,"  pursued  the  un- 
quenched  Mr.  Cashmore.  "If  that's  what  one  gets 
by  having  known  your  mother  — !" 

"  It  would  n't  have  helped  you"  Mrs.  Brook  re 
torted.  "And  won't  you  have  to  say  it's  all  you  were 
to  get  ?"  she  pityingly  murmured  to  her  other  visitor. 

He  turned  to  Vanderbank  with  a  strange  gasp,  and 
that  comforter  said  "Come!" 


BOOK  FIFTH 
THE  DUCHESS 


THE  lower  windows  of  the  great  white  house,  which 
stood  high  and  square,  opened  to  a  wide  flagged  ter 
race,  the  parapet  of  which,  an  old  balustrade  of  stone, 
was  broken  in  the  middle  of  its  course  by  a  flight  of 
stone  steps  that  descended  to  a  wonderful  garden. 
The  terrace  had  the  afternoon  shade  and  fairly  hung 
over  the  prospect  that  dropped  away  and  circled  it  — 
the  prospect,  beyond  the  series  of  gardens,  of  scat 
tered  splendid  trees  and  green  glades,  an  horizon 
mainly  of  woods.  Nanda  Brookenham,  one  day  at 
the  end  of  July,  coming  out  to  find  the  place  unoc 
cupied  as  yet  by  other  visitors,  stood  there  a  while 
with  an  air  of  happy  possession.  She  moved  from  end 
to  end  of  the  terrace,  pausing,  gazing  about  her,  tak 
ing  in  with  a  face  that  showed  the  pleasure  of  a  brief 
independence  the  combination  of  delightful  things  — 
of  old  rooms  with  old  decorations  that  gleamed  and 
gloomed  through  the  high  windows,  of  old  gardens  that 
squared  themselves  in  the  wide  angles  of  old  walls, 
of  wood-walks  rustling  in  the  afternoon  breeze  and 
stretching  away  to  further  reaches  of  solitude  and 
summer.  The  scene  had  an  expectant  stillness  that 
she  was  too  charmed  to  desire  to  break ;  she  watched 
it,  listened  to  it,  followed  with  her  eyes  the  white 
butterflies  among  the  flowers  below  her,  then  gave 
a  start  as  the  cry  of  a  peacock  came  to  her  from  an 
unseen  alley.  It  set  her  after  a  minute  into  less  dif- 

203 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

ficult  motion;  she  passed  slowly  down  the  steps, 
wandering  further,  looking  back  at  the  big  bright 
house  but  pleased  again  to  see  no  one  else  appear.  If 
the  sun  was  still  high  enough  she  had  a  pink  parasol. 
She  went  through  the  gardens  one  by  one,  skirting 
the  high  walls  that  were  so  like  "collections"  and 
thinking  how,  later  on,  the  nectarines  and  plums 
would  flush  there.  She  exchanged  a  friendly  greeting 
with  a  man  at  work,  passed  through  an  open  door  and, 
turning  this  way  and  that,  finally  found  herself  in  the 
park,  at  some  distance  from  the  house.  It  was  a  point 
she  had  had  to  take  another  rise  to  reach,  a  place 
marked  by  an  old  green  bench  for  a  larger  sweep  of 
the  view,  which,  in  the  distance  where  the  woods 
stopped,  showed  in  the  most  English  way  in  the 
world  the  colour-spot  of  an  old  red  village  and  the 
tower  of  an  old  grey  church.  She  had  sunk  down  upon 
the  bench  almost  with  a  sense  of  adventure,  yet  not  too 
fluttered  to  wonder  if  it  would  n't  have  been  happy  to 
bring  a  book;  the  charm  of  which  precisely  wTould 
have  been  in  feeling  everything  about  her  too  beauti 
ful  to  let  her  read. 

The  sense  of  adventure  grew  in  her,  presently  be 
coming  aware  of  a  stir  in  the  thicket  below,  followed 
by  the  coming  into  sight,  on  a  path  that,  mounting, 
passed  near  her  seat,  of  a  wanderer  whom,  had  his 
particular,  his  exceptional  identity  not  quickly  ap 
peared,  it  might  have  disappointed  her  a  trifle  to  have 
to  recognise  as  a  friend.  He  saw  her  immediately, 
stopped,  laughed,  waved  his  hat,  then  bounded  up 
the  slope  and,  brushing  his  forehead  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  confessing  as  to  a  red  face,  was  rejoicingly 

204 


THE  DUCHESS 

there  before  her.  Her  own  ejaculation  on  first  seeing 
him  —  "  Why,  Mr.  Van ! "  —  had  had  an  ambiguous 
sharpness  that  was  rather  for  herself  than  for  her 
visitor.  She  made  room  for  him  on  the  bench,  where 
in  a  moment  he  was  cooling  off  and  they  were  both 
explaining.  The  great  thing  was  that  he  had  walked 
from  the  station  to  stretch  his  legs,  coming  far  round, 
for  the  lovely  hour  and  the  pleasure  of  it,  by  a  way 
he  had  learnt  on  some  previous  occasion  of  being  at 
Mertle. 

"You've  already  stayed  here  then  ?"  Nanda,  who 
had  arrived  but  half  an  hour  before,  spoke  as  if  she 
had  lost  the  chance  to  give  him  a  new  impression. 

"  I  've  stayed  here  —  yes,  but  not  with  Mitchy ; 
with  some  people  or  other  —  who  the  deuce  can  they 
have  been  ?  —  who  had  the  place  for  a  few  months 
a  year  or  two  ago." 

"Don't  you  even  remember?" 

Vanderbank  wondered  and  laughed.  "It  will  come 
to  me.  But  it's  a  charming  sign  of  London  relations, 
is  n't  it  ?  —  that  one  can  come  down  to  people  this 
way  and  be  awfully  well  'done  for'  and  all  that,  and 
then  go  away  and  lose  the  whole  thing,  quite  forget 
to  whom  one  has  been  beholden.  It's  a  queer  life." 

Nanda  seemed  for  an  instant  to  wish  to  say  that 
one  might  deny  the  queerness,  but  she  said  something 
else  instead.  "I  suppose  a  man  like  you  does  n't  quite 
feel  that  he  is  beholden.  It 's  awfully  good  of  him  — 
it 's  doing  a  great  deal  for  anybody  —  that  he  should 
come  down  at  all;  so  that  it  would  add  immensely  to 
his  burden  if  anybody  had  to  be  remembered  for  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  man  '  like  me,' ' 
205 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Vanderbank  returned.  "I'm  not  any  particular  kind 
of  a  man."  She  had  been  looking  at  him,  but  she 
looked  away  on  this,  and  he  continued  good-hu 
moured  and  explanatory.  "If  you  mean  that  I  go 
about  such  a  lot,  how  do  you  know  it  but  by  the  fact 
that  you  're  everywhere  now  yourself  ?  —  so  that, 
whatever  I  am,  in  short,  you're  just  as  bad." 

"  You  admit  then  that  you  are  everywhere.  I  may  be 
just  as  bad,"  the  girl  went  on,  "but  the  point  is  that 
I  'm  not  nearly  so  good.  Girls  are  such  natural  hacks 
—  they  can't  be  anything  else." 

"And  pray  what  are  fellows  who  are  in  the  beastly 
grind  of  fearfully  busy  offices  ?  There  is  n't  an  old 
cabhorse  in  London  that's  kept  at  it,  I  assure  you,  as 
I  am.  Besides,"  the  young  man  added,  "if  I'm  out 
every  night  and  off  somewhere  like  this  for  Sunday, 
can't  you  understand,  my  dear  child,  the  fundamental 
reason  of  it  ?" 

Nanda,  with  her  eyes  on  him  again,  studied  an 
instant  this  mystery.  "Am  I  to  infer  with  delight 
that  it's  the  sweet  hope  of  meeting  me?  It  is  n't,"  she 
continued  in  a  moment,  "as  if  there  were  any  ne 
cessity  for  your  saying  that.  What's  the  use  ?"  But 
all  impatiently  she  stopped  short. 

He  was  eminently  gay  even  if  his  companion  was 
not.  "  Because  we  're  such  jolly  old  friends  that  we 
really  need  n't  so  much  as  speak  at  all  ?  Yes,  thank 
goodness  —  thank  goodness."  He  had  been  looking 
round  him,  taking  in  the  scene;  he  had  dropped  his 
hat  on  the  ground  and,  completely  at  his  ease,  though 
still  more  wishing  to  show  it,  had  crossed  his  legs  and 
closely  folded  his  arms.  "What  a  tremendously  jolly 

206 


THE  DUCHESS 

place !  If  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  recall  who  they 
were  —  the  other  people  —  I  've  the  comfort  of  being 
sure  their  minds  are  an  equal  blank.  Do  they  even 
remember  the  place  they  had  ?  'We  had  some  fellows 
down  at  —  where  was  it,  the  big  white  house  last 
November  ?  —  and  there  was  one  of  them,  out  of  the 
What-do-you-call-it  ?  —  you  know  —  who  might  have 
been  a  decent  enough  chap  if  he  had  n't  presumed  so 
on  his  gifts.' '  Vanderbank  paused  a  minute,  but  his 
companion  said  nothing,  and  he  pursued.  "It  does 
show,  does  n't  it  ?  —  the  fact  that  we  do  meet  this 
way  —  the  tremendous  change  that  has  taken  place 
in  your  life  in  the  last  three  months.  I  mean,  if  I'm 
everywhere  as  you  said  just  now,  your  being  just  the 
same." 

"Yes  — you  see  what  you've  done." 

"  How,  what  /  've  done  ? " 

"  You  plunge  into  the  woods  for  change,  for  soli 
tude,"  the  girl  said,  "and  the  first  thing  you  do  is  to 
find  me  waylaying  you  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
But  I  really  could  n't  —  if  you  '11  reflect  upon  it  — 
know  you  were  coming  this  way." 

He  sat  there  with  his  position  unchanged  but  with 
a  constant  little  shake  in  the  foot  that  hung  down,  as 
if  everything  —  and  what  she  now  put  before  him  not 
least  —  was  much  too  pleasant  to  be  reflected  on. 
"May  I  smoke  a  cigarette?" 

Nanda  waited  a  little;  her  friend  had  taken  out 
his  silver  case,  which  was  of  ample  form,  and  as 
he  extracted  a  cigarette  she  put  forth  her  hand. 
"May  I ?"  She  turned  the  case  over  with  admira 
tion. 

207 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Vanderbank  demurred.  "Do  you  smoke  with  Mr. 
Longdon  ? " 

"Immensely.    But  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything,  everything."  He  spoke  with  a  faint 
ring  of  impatience.  "I  want  you  to  do  with  me 
exactly  as  you  do  with  him." 

"Ah  that's  soon  said!"  the  girl  replied  in  a  pe 
culiar  tone.  "  How  do  you  mean,  to  '  do '  ? " 

"Well  then  to  be.  What  shall  I  say  ?"  Vanderbank 
pleasantly  wondered  while  his  foot  kept  up  its  mo 
tion.  "To  feel." 

She  continued  to  handle  the  cigarette-case,  without, 
however,  having  profited  by  its  contents.  "I  don't 
think  that  as  regards  Mr.  Longdon  and  me  you  know 
quite  so  much  as  you  suppose." 

Vanderbank  laughed  and  smoked.  "I  take  for 
granted  he  tells  me  everything." 

"Ah  but  you  scarcely  take  for  granted  7  do ! "  She 
rubbed  her  cheek  an  instant  with  the  polished  silver 
and  again  the  next  moment  turned  over  the  case. 
"This  is  the  kind  of  one  I  should  like." 

Her  companion  glanced  down  at  it.  "Why  it  holds 
twenty." 

"Well,  I  want  one  that  holds  twenty." 

Vanderbank  only  threw  out  his  smoke.  "I  want 
so  to  give  you  something,"  he  said  at  last,  "that, 
in  my  relief  at  lighting  on  an  object  that  will  do, 
I  will,  if  you  don't  look  out,  give  you  either  that  or 
a  pipe." 

"Do  you  mean  this  particular  one  ?" 

"  I  Ve  had  it  for  years  —  but  even  that  one  if  you 
like  it." 

208 


THE  DUCHESS 

She  kept  it  —  continued  to  finger  it.  "And  by 
whom  was  it  given  you  ?" 

At  this  he  turned  to  her  smiling.  "  You  think  I  Ve 
forgotten  that  too  ? " 

"Certainly  you  must  have  forgotten,  to  be  willing 
to  give  it  away  again." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  it  was  a  present  ? " 

"Such  things  always  are  —  people  don't  buy  them 
for  themselves." 

She  had  now  relinquished  the  object,  laying  it  upon 
the  bench,  and  Vanderbank  took  it  up.  "Its  origin's 
lost  in  the  night  of  time  —  it  has  no  history  except 
that  I  Ve  used  it.  But  I  assure  you  that  I  do  want  to 
give  you  something.  I  Ve  never  given  you  anything." 

She  was  silent  a  little.  "The  exhibition  you're 
making,"  she  seriously  sighed  at  last,  "of  your  incon 
stancy  and  superficiality !  All  the  relics  of  you  that 
I  Ve  treasured  and  that  I  supposed  at  the  time  to  have 
meant  something!" 

"The  'relics'?  Have  you  a  lock  of  my  hair?" 
Then  as  her  meaning  came  to  him:  "Oh  little  Christ 
mas  things  ?  Have  you  really  kept  them  ?" 

"  Laid  away  in  a  drawer  of  their  own  —  done  up  in 
pink  paper." 

"I  know  what  you're  coming  to,"  Vanderbank 
said.  "You've  given  me  things,  and  you're  trying  to 
convict  me  of  having  lost  the  sweet  sense  of  them. 
But  you  can't  do  it.  Where  my  heart's  concerned  I  'm 
a  walking  reliquary.  Pink  paper  ?  /  use  gold  paper  — 
and  the  finest  of  all,  the  gold  paper  of  the  mind."  He 
gave  a  flip  with  a  fingernail  to  his  cigarette  and  looked 
at  its  quickened  fire;  after  which  he  pursued  very 

209 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

familiarly,  but  with  a  kindness  that  of  itself  qualified 
the  mere  humour  of  the  thing:  "Don't  talk,  my  dear 
child,  as  if  you  did  n't  really  know  me  for  the  best 
friend  you  have  in  the  world."  As  soon  as  he  had 
,  spoken  he  pulled  out  his  watch,  so  that  if  his  words 
had  led  to  something  of  a  pause  this  movement  of 
fered  a  pretext  for  breaking  it.  Nanda  asked  the  hour 
and,  on  his  replying  "Five-fifteen,"  remarked  that 
there  would  now  be  tea  on  the  terrace  with  every  one 
gathered  at  it.  "Then  shall  we  go  and  join  them  ?" 
her  companion  demanded. 

He  had  made,  however,  no  other  motion,  and  when 
after  hesitating  she  said  "Yes,  with  pleasure"  it  was 
also  without  a  change  of  position.  "  I  like  this,"  she 
inconsequently  added. 

"So  do  I  awfully.  Tea  on  the  terrace,"  Vanderbank 
went  on,  "is  n't  'in'  it.  But  who's  here  ?" 

"Oh  every  one.    All  your  set." 

"  Mine  ?  Have  I  still  a  set  —  with  the  universal 
vagabondism  you  accuse  me  of?" 

"  Well  then  Mitchy's  —  whoever  they  are." 

"And  nobody  of  yours  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Nanda  said,  "all  mine.  He  must  at  least 
have  arrived  by  this  time.  My  set's  Mr.  Longdon," 
she  explained.  "  He 's  all  of  it  now." 

"Then  where  in  the  world  am  I  ?" 

"Oh  you're  an  extra.    There  are  always  extras." 

"A  complete  set  and  one  over?"  Vanderbank 
laughed.  "  Where  then 's  Tishy  ? " 

Charming  and  grave,  the  girl  thought  a  moment. 
"  She 's  in  Paris  with  her  mother  —  on  their  way  to 
Aix-les-Bains."  Then  with  impatience  she  continued: 

2io 


THE  DUCHESS 

"  Do  you  know  that 's  a  great  deal  to  say  —  what  you 
said  just  now  ?  I  mean  about  your  being  the  best 
friend  I  have." 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  that's  exactly  why  I  said  it. 
You  see  I'm  not  in  the  least  delicate  or  graceful  or 
shy  about  it  —  I  just  come  out  with  it  and  defy  you 
to  contradict  me.  Who,  if  I  'm  not  the  best,  is  a  better 
one?" 

"Well,"  Nanda  replied,  "I  feel  since  I've  known 
Mr.  Longdon  that  I  've  almost  the  sort  of  friend  who 
makes  eveiy  one  else  not  count." 

"Then  at  the  end  of  three  months  he  has  arrived  at 
a  value  for  you  that  I  have  n't  reached  in  all  these 
years  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  returned  —  "the  value  of  my  not  being 
afraid  of  him." 

Vanderbank,  on  the  bench,  shifted  his  position, 
turning  more  to  her  and  throwing  an  arm  over  the 
back.  "And  you're  afraid  of  me?" 

"Horribly  — hideously." 

"Then  our  long,  our  happy  relations  — ?" 

"They're  just  what  makes  my  terror,"  she  broke 
in,  "particularly  abject.  Happy  relations  don't  mat 
ter.  I  always  think  of  you  with  fear." 

His  elbow  rested  on  the  back  and  his  hand  sup 
ported  his  head.  "How  awfully  curious  —  if  it  be 
true!" 

She  had  been  looking  away  to  the  sweet  English 
distance,  but  at  this  she  made  a  movement.  "Oh  Mr. 
Van,  I'm 'true'!" 

As  Mr.  Van  himself  could  n't  have  expressed  at 
any  subsequent  time  to  any  interested  friend  the  par- 

211 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

ticular  effect  upon  him  of  the  tone  of  these  words  his 
chronicler  takes  advantage  of  the  fact  not  to  pretend  to 
a  greater  intelligence  —  to  limit  himself  on  the  contrary 
to  the  simple  statement  that  they  produced  in  Mr. 
Van's  cheek  a  flush  just  discernible.  "Fear  of  what  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    Fear  is  fear." 

"Yes,  yes  —  I  see."  He  took  out  another  cigarette 
and  occupied  a  moment  in  lighting  it.  "Well,  kind 
ness  is  kindness  too  —  that's  all  one  can  say." 

He  had  smoked  again  a  while  before  she  turned  to 
him.  "  Have  I  wounded  you  by  saying  that  ? " 

A  certain  effect  of  his  flush  was  still  in  his  smile. 
"It  seems  to  me  I  should  like  you  to  wound  me.  I  did 
what  I  wanted  a  moment  ago,"  he  continued  with 
some  precipitation:  "I  brought  you  out  handsomely 
on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Longdon.  That  was  my  idea 
—  just  to  draw  you." 

"Well,"  said  Nanda,  looking  away  again,  "he  has 
come  into  my  life." 

"  He  could  n't  have  come  into  a  place  where  it  gives 
me  more  pleasure  to  see  him." 

"  But  he  did  n't  like,  the  other  day  when  I  used  it  to 
him,  that  expression,"  the  girl  returned.  "He  called 
it  'mannered  modern  slang'  and  came  back  again  to 
the  extraordinary  difference  between  my  speech  and 
my  grandmother's." 

"Of  course,"  the  young  man  understandingly  as 
sented.  "  But  I  rather  like  your  speech.  Has  n't  he 
by  this  time,  with  you,"  he  pursued,  "crossed  the 
gulf?  He  has  with  me." 

"Ah  with  you  there  was  no  gulf.  He  liked  you 
from  the  first." 

212 


THE  DUCHESS 

Vanderbank  wondered.  "You  mean  I  managed 
him  so  well  ?" 

"I  don't  know  how  you  managed  him,  but  liking 
me  has  been  for  him  a  painful  gradual  process.  I 
think  he  does  now,"  Nanda  declared.  "He  accepts 
me  at  last  as  different  —  he 's  trying  with  me  on  that 
basis.  He  has  ended  by  understanding  that  when  he 
talks  to  me  ef  Granny  I  can't  even  imagine  her." 

Vanderbank  puffed  away.    "/  can." 

"That's  what  Mitchy  says  too.  But  you've  both 
probably  got  her  wrong." 

" I  don't  know,"  said  Vanderbank  —  "I  've  gone 
into  it  a  good  deal.  But  it's  too  late.  We  can't  be 
Greeks  if  we  would." 

Even  for  this  Nanda  had  no  laugh,  though  she  had 
a  quick  attention.  "Do  you  call  Granny  a  Greek  ?" 

Her  companion  slowly  rose.  "  Yes  —  to  finish  her 
off  handsomely  and  have  done  with  her."  He  looked 
again  at  his  watch.  "Shall  we  go  ?  I  want  to  see  if 
my  man  and  my  things  have  turned  up." 

She  kept  her  seat;  there  was  something  to  revert 
to.  "My  fear  of  you  is  n't  superficial.  I  mean  it  is  n't 
immediate  —  not  of  you  just  as  you  stand,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  It 's  of  some  dreadfully  possible  future  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  smiling  down  at  her, 
"don't  forget  that  if  there's  to  be  such  a  monster 
there'll  also  be  a  future  you,  proportionately  devel 
oped,  to  deal  with  him." 

She  had  closed  her  parasol  in  the  shade  and  her 
eyes  attached  themselves  to  the  small  hole  she  had 
dug  in  the  ground  with  its  point.  "We  shall  both 
have  moved,  you  mean  ? " 

213 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"It's  charming  to  feel  we  shall  probably  have 
moved  together." 

"Ah  if  moving's  changing,"  she  returned,  "there 
won't  be  much  for  me  in  that.  I  shall  never  change 

O 

—  I  shall  be  always  just  the  same.  The  same  old 
mannered  modern  slangy  hack,"  she  continued  quite 
gravely.  "Mr.  Longdon  has  made  me  feel  that." 

Vanderbank  laughed  aloud,  and  it  was  especially 
at  her  seriousness.  "Well,  upon  my  soul!" 

"Yes,"  she  pursued,  "what  I  am  I  must  remain. 
I  have  n't  what's  called  a  principle  of  growth."  Mak 
ing  marks  in  the  earth  with  her  umbrella  she  appeared 
to  cipher  it  out.  "  I  'm  about  as  good  as  I  can  be  — 
and  about  as  bad.  If  Mr.  Longdon  can't  make  me 
different  nobody  can." 

Vanderbank  could  only  speak  in  the  tone  of  high 
amusement.  "And  he  has  given  up  the  hope?" 

"  Yes  —  though  not  me  altogether.    He  has  given 
up  the  hope  he  originally  had." 
\.  "  He  gives  up  quickly  —  in  three  months ! " 

"Oh  these  three  months,"  she  answered,  "have 
been  a  long  time:  the  fullest,  the  most  important,  for 
what  has  happened  in  them,  of  my  life."  She  still 
poked  at  the  ground;  then  she  added:  "And  all 
thanks  to  you." 

"To  me  ?"  — Vanderbank  could  n't  fancy! 

"Why,  for  what  we  were  speaking  of  just  now  — 
my  being  to-day  so  in  everything  and  squeezing  up 
and  down  no  matter  whose  staircase.  Is  n't  it  one 
crowded  hour  of  glorious  life?"  she  asked.  "What 
preceded  it  was  an  age,  no  doubt  —  but  an  age  with 
out  a  name." 

214 


THE  DUCHESS 

Vanderbank  watched  her  a  little  in  silence,  then 
spoke  quite  beside  the  question.  "It's  astonishing 
how  at  moments  you  remind  me  of  your  mother ! " 

At  this  she  got  up.  "Ah  there  it  is !  It's  what  I  shall 
never  shake  off.  That,  I  imagine,  is  what  Mr.  Long- 
don  feels." 

Both  on  their  feet  now,  as  if  ready  for  the  others, 
they  yet  —  and  even  a  trifle  awkwardly  —  lingered. 
It  might  in  fact  have  appeared  to  a  spectator  that 
some  climax  had  come,  on  the  young  man's  part,  to 
some  state  of  irresolution  about  the  utterance  of  some 
thing.  What  were  the  words  so  repeatedly  on  his  lips, 
yet  so  repeatedly  not  sounded  ?  It  would  have  struck 
our  observer  that  they  were  probably  not  those  his 
lips  even  now  actually  formed.  "Does  n't  he  perhaps 
talk  to  you  too  much  about  yourself?" 

Nanda  gave  him  a  dim  smile,  and  he  might  indeed 
then  have  exclaimed  on  a  certain  resemblance,  a  re 
semblance  of  expression  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
form.  It  would  n't  have  been  diminished  for  him 
moreover  by  her  successful  suppression  of  every  sign 
that  she  felt  his  question  a  little  of  a  snub.  The  recall 
he  had  previously  mentioned  could,  however,  as 
she  answered  him,  only  have  been  brushed  away  by 
a  supervening  sense  of  his  roughness.  "  It  probably 
is  n't  so  much  that  as  my  own  way  of  going  on."  She 
spoke  with  a  mildness  that  could  scarce  have  been  so 
full  without  being  an  effort.  "Between  his  patience 
and  my  egotism  anything 's  possible.  It  is  n't  his  talk 
ing —  it's  his  listening."  She  gave  up  the  point,  at 
any  rate,  as  if  from  softness  to  her  actual  companion. 
"Was  n't  it  you  who  spoke  to  mamma  about  my 

215 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

sitting  with  her  ?  That 's  what  I  mean  by  my  debt 
to  you.  It 's  through  you  that  I  'm  always  there  — 
through  you  and  perhaps  a  little  through  Mitchy." 

"  Oh  through  Mitchy  —  it  must  have  been  —  more 
than  through  me."  Vanderbank  spoke  with  the 
manner  of  humouring  her  about  a  trifle.  "Mitchy, 
delightful  man,  felt  on  the  subject  of  your  eternal 
exile,  I  think,  still  more  strongly." 

They  quitted  their  place  together  and  at  the  end 
of  a  few  steps  became  aware  of  the  approach  of  one 
of  the  others,  a  figure  but  a  few  yards  off",  arriving 
from  the  quarter  from  which  Nanda  had  come.  "Ah 
Mr.  Longdon ! "  —  she  spoke  with  eagerness  now. 

Vanderbank  instantly  waved  his  hat.  "Dear  old 
boy!" 

"  Between  you  all,  at  any  rate,"  she  said  more  gaily, 
"you've  brought  me  down." 

Vanderbank  made  no  answer  till  they  met  their 
friend,  when,  by  way  of  greeting,  he  simply  echoed 
her  words.  "Between  us  all,  you'll  be  glad  to  know, 
we've  brought  her  down." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  from  one  of  them  to  the  other. 
"  Where  have  you  been  together  ? " 

Nanda  was  the  first  to  respond.  "  Only  talking  — 
on  a  bench." 

"Well,  /  want  to  talk  on  a  bench!"  Their  friend 
showed  a  spirit. 

"With  me,  of  course  ?"  — Vanderbank  met  it  with 
encouragement. 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  Mr.  Longdon  sought 
her  eyes.  "No  — with  Nanda.  You  must  mingle  in 
the  crowd." 

216 


THE  DUCHESS 

"Ah,"  their  companion  laughed,  "you  two  are  the 
crowd ! " 

"Well  —  have  your  tea  first.'* 

Vanderbank  on  this,  giving  it  up  with  the  air  of 
amused  accommodation  that  was  never  — certainly 
for  these  two  —  at  fault  in  him,  offered  to  Mr. 
Longdon  before  departing  the  handshake  of  greet 
ing  he  had  omitted;  a  demonstration  really  the 
warmer  for  the  tone  of  the  joke  that  went  with  it. 
"Intrigant!" 


II 


NANDA  praised  to  the  satellite  so  fantastically  de 
scribed  the  charming  spot  she  had  quitted,  with  the 
effect  that  they  presently  took  fresh  possession  of  it, 
finding  the  beauty  of  the  view  deepened  as  the  after 
noon  grew  old  and  the  shadows  long.  They  were  of 
a  comfortable  agreement  on  these  matters,  by  which 
moreover  they  were  but  little  delayed,  one  of  the  pair 
at  least  being  too  conscious,  for  the  hour,  of  still  other 
phenomena  than  the  natural  and  peaceful  process 
that  filled  the  air.  "Well,  you  must  tell  me  about  these 
things,"  Mr.  Longdon  sociably  said:  he  had  joined 
his  young  friend  with  a  budget  of  impressions  rapidly 
gathered  at  the  house ;  as  to  which  his  appeal  to  her 
for  a  light  or  two  may  be  taken  as  the  measure  of  the 
confidence  now  ruling  their  relations.  He  had  come 
to  feel  at  last,  he  mentioned,  that  he  could  allow  for 
most  differences;  yet  in  such  a  situation  as  the  present 
bewilderment  could  only  come  back.  There  were  no 
differences  in  the  world  —  so  it  had  all  ended  for 
him  —  but  those  that  marked  at  every  turn  the  man 
ners  he  had  for  three  months  been  observing  in  good 
society.  The  general  wide  deviation  of  this  body 
occupied  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  almost  every 
thing  else,  and  he  had  finally  been  brought  to  believe 
that  even  in  his  slow-paced  prime  he  must  have  hung 
behind,  his  contemporaries.  He  had  not  supposed  at 
the  moment  —  in  the  fifties  and  the  sixties  —  that 

218 


THE  DUCHESS 

he  passed  for  old-fashioned,  but  life  could  n't  have 
left  him  so  far  in  the  rear  had  the  start  between  them 
originally  been  fair.  This  was  the  way  he  had  more 
than  once  put  the  matter  to  the  girl;  which  gives 
a  sufficient  hint,  it  is  hoped,  of  the  range  of  some  of 
their  talk.  It  had  always  wound  up  indeed,  their  talk, 
with  some  assumption  of  the  growth  of  his  actual 
understanding;  but  it  was  just  these  pauses  in  the 
fray  that  seemed  to  lead  from  time  to  time  to  a  sharper 
clash.  It  was  apt  to  be  when  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
exhausted  surprises  that  he  really  received  his  greatest 
shocks.  There  were  no  such  queer-tasting  draughts 
as  some  of  those  yielded  by  the  bucket  that  had 
repeatedly,  as  he  imagined,  touched  the  bottom  of 
the  well.  "Now  this  sudden  invasion  of  somebody's 

—  heaven  knows  whose  —  house,  and  our  dropping 
down  on  it  like  a  swarm  of  locusts:  I  dare  say  it  is  n't 
civil  to  criticise  it  when  one's  going  too,  so  almost 
culpably,    with    the    stream;   but  what   are    people 
made  of  that  they  consent,  just  for   money,  to  the 
violation  of  their  homes  ? " 

Nanda  wondered ;  she  cultivated  the  sense  of  his 
making  her  intensely  reflect.  "  But  have  n't  people  in 
England  always  let  their  places  ? " 

"If  we're  a  nation  of  shopkeepers,  you  mean,  it 
can't  date,  on  the  scale  on  which  we  show  it,  only  from 
last  week  ?  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  and  the  more  one 
thinks  of  it  the  more  one  seems  to  see  that  society  — 
for  we're  in  society,  are  n't  we,  and  that's  our  hori 
zon  ?  —  can  never  have  been  anything  but  increas 
ingly  vulgar.  The  point  is  that  in  the  twilight  of  time 

—  and  I  belong,  you  see,  to  the  twilight  —  it  had 

219 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

made  out  much  less  how  vulgar  it  could  be.  It  did  its 
best  very  probably,  but  there  were  too  many  super 
stitions  it  had  to  get  rid  of.  It  has  been  throwing  them 
overboard  one  by  one,  so  that  now  the  ship  sails  un 
commonly  light.  That's  the  way"  —  and  with  his 
eyes  on  the  golden  distance  he  ingeniously  followed 
it  out  —  "I  come  to  feel  so  the  lurching  and  pitching. 
If  I  were  n't  a  pretty  fair  sailor  —  well,  as  it  is,  my 
dear,"  he  interrupted  himself  with  a  laugh,  "  I  show 
you  often  enough  what  grabs  I  make  for  support." 
He  gave  a  faint  gasp,  half  amusement,  half  anguish, 
then  abruptly  relieved  himself  by  a  question.  "To 
whom  in  point  of  fact  does  the  place  belong  ? " 

"I'm  awfully  ashamed,  but  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
know.  That  just  came  up  here,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"for  Mr.  Van." 

Mr.  Longdon  seemed  to  think  an  instant.  "Oh  it 
came  up,  did  it  ?  And  Mr.  Van  could  n't  tell  ?" 

"  He  has  quite  forgotten  —  though  he  has  been  here 
before.  Of  course  it  may  have  been  with  other  people," 
she  added  in  extenuation.  "I  mean  it  mayn't  have 
been  theirs  then  any  more  than  it's  Mitchy's." 

"I  see.    They  too  had  just  bundled  in." 

Nanda  completed  the  simple  history.  "To-day  it's 
Mitchy  who  bundles,  and  I  believe  that  really  he 
bundled  only  yesterday.  He  turned  in  his  people  and 
here  we  are." 

"Here  we  are,  here  we  are!"  her  friend  more 
gravely  echoed.  "Well,  it's  splendid!" 

As  if  at  a  note  in  his  voice  her  eyes,  while  his  own 
still  strayed  away,  just  fixed  him.  "Don't  you  think 
it's  really  rather  exciting?  Everything's  ready,  the 

220 


THE  DUCHESS 

feast  all  spread,  and  with  nothing  to  blunt  our  curios 
ity  but  the  general  knowledge  that  there  will  be  people 
and  things  —  with  nothing  but  that  we  comfortably 
take  our  places."  He  answered  nothing,  though  her 
picture  apparently  reached  him.  "There  are  people, 
there  are  things,  and  all  in  a  plenty.  Had  every  one, 
when  you  came  away,  turned  up  ?"  she  asked  as  he 
was  still  silent. 

"  I  dare  say.  There  were  some  ladies  and  gentlemen 
on  the  terrace  whom  I  did  n't  know.  But  I  looked 
only  for  you  and  came  this  way  on  an  indication  of 
your  mother's." 

"And  did  she  ask  that  if  you  should  find  me  with 
Mr.  Van  you'd  make  him  come  to  her?" 

Mr.  Longdon  replied  to  this  with  some  delay  and 
without  movement.  "How  could  she  have  supposed 
he  was  here  ? " 

"Since  he  had  not  yet  been  to  the  house?  Oh  it 
has  always  been  a  wonder  to  me,  the  things  that 
mamma  supposes!  I  see  she  asked  you,"  Nanda 
insisted. 

At  this  her  old  friend  turned  to  her.  "  But  it  was  n't 
because  of  that  I  got  rid  of  him." 

She  had  a  pause.  "No  —  you  don't  mind  every 
thing  mamma  says." 

"I  don't  mind  'everything*  anybody  says:  not 
even,  my  dear,  when  the  person's  you." 

Again  she  waited  an  instant.  "Not  even  when  it's 
Mr.  Van?" 

Mr.  Longdon  candidly  considered.  "Oh  I  take 
him  up  on  all  sorts  of  things." 

"That  shows  then  the  importance  they  have  for 
221 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

you.  Is  he  like  his  grandmother  ? "  the  girl  pursued. 
Then  as  her  companion  looked  vague:  "Wasn't  it 
his  grandmother  too  you  knew?" 

He  had  an  extraordinary  smile.  "His  mother." 
She  exclaimed,  colouring,  on  her  mistake,  and  he 
added :  "I'm  not  so  bad  as  that.  But  you  're  none  of 
you  like  them." 

"Was  n't  she  pretty  ?"  Nanda  asked. 

"Very  handsome.  But  it  makes  no  difference.  She 
herself  to-day  would  n't  know  him." 

She  gave  a  small  gasp.  "His  own  mother 
wouldn't  —  ?" 

His  headshake  just  failed  of  sharpness.  "No,  nor 
he  her.  There's  a  link  missing."  Then  as  if  after  all 
she  might  take  him  too  seriously,  "Of  course  it's  I," 
he  more  gently  moralised,  "who  have  lost  the  link 
in  my  sleep.  I  've  slept  half  the  century  —  I  'm  Rip 
Van  Winkle."  He  went  back  after  a  moment  to  her 
question.  "He's  not  at  any  rate  like  his  mother." 

She  turned  it  over.  "Perhaps  you  would  n't  think 
so  much  of  her  now." 

"  Perhaps  not.  At  all  events  my  snatching  you  from 
Mr.  Vanderbank  was  my  own  idea." 

"I  was  n't  thinking,"  Nanda  said,  "of  your  snatch 
ing  me.  I  was  thinking  of  your  snatching  yourself." 

"I  might  have  sent  you  to  the  house  ?  Well,"  Mr. 
Longdon  replied,  "I  find  I  take  more  and  more  the 
economical  view  of  my  pleasures.  I  run  them  less  and 
less  together.  I  get  all  I  can  out  of  each." 

"So  now  you  're  getting  all  you  can  out  of  me  ?" 

"All  I  can,  my  dear  —  all  I  can."  He  watched 
a  little  the  flushed  distance,  then  mildly  broke  out: 

222 


\v 


THE  DUCHESS 

"It  is,  as  you  said  just  now,  exciting!  But  it  makes 
me"  —  and  he  became  abrupt  again  —  "want  you, 
as  I  've  already  told  you,  to  come  to  my  place.  Not, 
however,  that  we  may  be  still  more  mad  together." 

The  girl  shared  from  the  bench  his  contemplation. 
"Do  you  call  this  madness?" 

Well,  he  rather  stuck  to  it.  "You  spoke  of  it  your 
self  as  excitement.  You  '11  make  of  course  one  of  your 
fine  distinctions,  but  I  take  it  in  my  rough  way  as 
a  whirl.  We're  going  round  and  round."  In  a  minute 
he  had  folded  his  arms  with  the  same  closeness 
Vanderbank  had  used  —  in  a  minute  he  too  was 
nervously  shaking  his  foot.  "Steady,  steady;  if  we 
sit  close  we  shall  see  it  through.  But  come  down  to 
Suffolk  for  sanity." 

"You  do  mean  then  that  I  may  come  alone  ?" 

"I  won't  receive  you,  I  assure  you,  on  any  other 
terms.  I  want  to  show  you,"  he  continued,  "what  life 
can  give.  Not  of  course,"  he  subjoined,  "of  this  sort 
of  thing." 

"No  —  you've  told  me.    Of  peace." 

"Of  peace,"  said  Mr.  Longdon.  "Oh  you  don't 
know  —  you  have  n't  the  least  idea.  That's  just  why 
I  want  to  show  you." 

Nanda  looked  as  if  already  she  saw  it  in  the  dis 
tance.  "  But  will  it  be  peace  if  I  'm  there  ?  I  mean  for 
you,"  she  added. 

"  It  is  n't  a  question  of  *  me.'  Everybody 's  omelet  is 
made  of  somebody's  eggs.  Besides,  I  think  that  when 
we're  alone  together — !" 

He  had  dropped  for  so  long  that  she  wondered. 
Well,  when  we  are  —  ? " 

223 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Why,  it  will  be  all  right,"  he  simply  concluded. 
"Temples  of  peace,  the  ancients  used  to  call  them. 
We'll  set  up  one,  and  I  shall  be  at  least  doorkeeper. 
You'll  come  down  whenever  you  like." 

She  gave  herself  to  him  in  her  silence  more  than  she 
could  have  done  in  words.  "Have  you  arranged  it 
with  mamma  ?"  she  said,  however,  at  last. 

"I've  arranged  everything." 

"  She  won't  want  to  come  ? " 

Her  friend's  laugh  turned  him  to  her.  "Don't  be 
nervous.  There  are  things  as  to  which  your  mother 
trusts  me." 

"  But  others  as  to  which  not." 

Their  eyes  met  for  some  time  on  this,  and  it  ended 
in  his  saying:  "Well,  you  must  help  me."  Nanda, 
but  without  shrinking,  looked  away  again,  and  Mr. 
Longdon,  as  if  to  consecrate  their  understanding  by 
the  air  of  ease,  passed  to  another  subject.  "Mr. 
Mitchett  's  the  most  princely  host." 

"  Is  n't  he  too  kind  for  anything  ?  Do  you  know 
what  he  pretends  ?"  Nanda  went  on.  "He  says  in  the 
most  extraordinary  way  that  he  does  it  all  for  me." 

"Takes  this  great  place  and  fills  it  with  servants 
and  company  —  ?" 

"Yes,  just  so  that  I  may  come  down  for  a  Sunday 
or  two.  Of  course  he  has  only  taken  it  for  three  or 
four  weeks,  but  even  for  that  time  it's  a  handsome 
compliment.  He  does  n't  care  what  he  does.  It's  his 
way  of  amusing  himself.  He  amuses  himself  at  our 
expense,"  the  girl  continued. 

"Well,  I  hope  that  makes  up,  my  dear,  for  the  rate 
at  which  we're  doing  so  at  his!" 

224 


THE  DUCHESS 

"His  amusement,"  said  Nanda,  "is  to  see  us  be 
lieve  what  he  says." 

Mr.  Longdon  thought  a  moment.  "Really,  my 
child,  you're  most  acute." 

"  Oh  I  have  n't  watched  life  for  nothing !  Mitchy 
does  n't  care,"  she  repeated. 

Her  companion  seemed  divided  between  a  desire 
to  draw  and  a  certain  fear  to  encourage  her.  "  Does  n't 
care  for  what  ? " 

She  considered  an  instant,  all  coherently,  and  it 
might  have  added  to  Mr.  Longdon's  impression  of 
her  depth.  "Well,  for  himself.  I  mean  for  his  money. 
For  anything  any  one  may  think.  For  Lord  Petherton, 
for  instance,  really  at  all.  Lord  Petherton  thinks  he 
has  helped  him  —  thinks,  that  is,  that  Mitchy  thinks 
he  has.  But  Mitchy 's  more  amused  at  him  than  at 
anybody  else.  He  takes  every  one  in." 

"  Every  one  but  you  ? " 

"Oh  I  like  him." 

"My  poor  child,  you're  of  a  profundity!"  Mr. 
Longdon  murmured. 

He  spoke  almost  uneasily,  but  she  was  not  too 
much  alarmed  to  continue  lucid.  "And  he  likes  me, 
and  I  know  just  how  much  —  and  just  how  little. 
He's  the  most  generous  man  in  the  world.  It  pleases 
him  to  feel  that  he's  indifferent  and  splendid  —  there 
are  so  many  things  it  makes  up  to  him  for."  The  old 
man  listened  with  attention,  and  his  young  friend, 
conscious  of  it,  proceeded  as  on  ground  of  which  she 
knew  every  inch.  "  He 's  the  son,  as  you  know,  of  a 
great  bootmaker  — '  to  all  the  Courts  of  Europe ' 
who  left  him  a  large  fortune,  which  had  been  made, 

225 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

I  believe,  in  the  most  extraordinary  way,  by  building- 
speculations  as  well." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know.  It's  astonishing !"  her  compan 
ion  sighed. 

"That  he  should  be  of  such  extraction  ?" 

"Well,  everything.  That  you  should  be  talking 
as  you  are  —  that  you  should  have  'watched  life/  as 
you  say,  to  such  purpose.  That  we  should  any  of  us 
be  here  —  most  of  all  that  Mr.  Mitchett  himself  should. 
That  your  grandmother's  daughter  should  have 
brought  her  daughter — " 

"To  stay  with  a  person"  —  Nanda  took  it  up  as, 
apparently  out  of  delicacy,  he  fairly  failed  —  "whose 
father  used  to  take  the  measure,  down  on  his  knees 
on  a  little  mat,  as  mamma  says,  of  my  grandfather's 
remarkably  large  foot  ?  Yes,  we  none  of  us  mind.  Do 
you  think  we  should  ?"  Nanda  asked. 

Mr.  Longdon  turned  it  over.  "  I  '11  answer  you  by 
a  question.  Would  you  marry  him  ?" 

"Never."  Then  as  if  to  show  there  was  no  weak 
ness  in  her  mildness,  "Never,  never,  never,"  she  re 
peated. 

"And  yet  I  dare  say  you  know  —  ?"  But  Mr. 
Longdon  once  more  faltered;  his  scruple  came  upper 
most.  "You  don't  mind  my  speaking  of  it  ?" 

"Of  his  thinking  he  wants  to  marry  me?  Not 
a  bit.  I  positively  enjoy  telling  you  there 's  nothing 
in  it." 

"Not  even  for  him?" 

Nanda  considered.  "Not  more  than  is  made  up  to 
him  by  his  having  found  out  through  talks  and  things 
—  which  might  n't  otherwise  have  occurred  —  that 

226 


THE  DUCHESS 

I  do  like  him.  I  would  n't  have  come  down  here  if 
I  had  n't  liked  him." 

"Not  for  any  other  reason  ?" — Mr.  Longdon  put 
it  gravely. 

"Not  for  your  being  here,  do  you  mean  ?" 

He  delayed.    "Me  and  other  persons." 

She  showed  somehow  that  she  would  n't  flinch. 
"You  were  n't  asked  till  after  he  had  made  sure  I'd 
come.  We've  become,  you  and  I,"  she  smiled,  "one 
of  the  couples  who  are  invited  together." 

These  were  couples,  his  speculative  eye  seemed  to 
show,  he  did  n't  even  yet  know  about,  and  if  he  men 
tally  took  them  up  a  moment  it  was  all  promptly  to 
drop  them.  "  I  don't  think  you  state  it  quite  strongly 
enough,  you  know." 

"That  Mitchy  is  hard  hit  ?  He  states  it  so  strongly 
himself  that  it  will  surely  do  for  both  of  us.  I  'm 
a  part  of  what  I  just  spoke  of —  his  indifference  and 
magnificence.  It's  as  if  he  could  only  afford  to  do 
what's  not  vulgar.  He  might  perfectly  marry  a  duke's 
daughter,  but  that  would  be  vulgar  —  would  be  the 
absolute  necessity  and  ideal  of  nine  out  of  ten  of  the 
sons  of  shoemakers  made  ambitious  by  riches.  Mitchy 
says  'No ;  I  take  my  own  line ;  I  go  in  for  a  beggar- 
maid.'  And  it's  only  because  I  'm  a  beggar-maid  that 
he  wants  me." 

"  But  there  are  plenty  of  other  beggar-maids,"  Mr. 
Longdon  objected. 

"Oh  I  admit  I'm  the  one  he  least  dislikes.  But 
if  I  had  any  money,"  Nanda  went  on,  "or  if  I  were 
really  good-looking  —  for  that  to-day,  the  real  thing, 
will  do  as  well  as  being  a  duke's  daughter  —  he 

227 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

would  n't  come  near  me.  And  I  think  that  ought  to 
settle  it.  Besides,  he  must  marry  Aggie.  She's  a 
beggar-maid  too  —  as  well  as  an  angel.  So  there 's 
nothing  against  it." 

Mr.  Longdon  stared,  but  even  in  his  surprise 
seemed  to  take  from  the  swiftness  with  which  she 
made  him  move  over  the  ground  a  certain  agreeable 
glow.  "Does 'Aggie' like  him?" 

"She  likes  every  one.  As  I  say,  she's  an  angel  — 
but  a  real,  real,  real  one.  The  kindest  man  in  the 
world's  therefore  the  proper  husband  for  her.  If 
Mitchy  wants  to  do  something  thoroughly  nice,"  she 
declared  with  the  same  high  competence,  "he'll  take 
her  out  of  her  situation,  which  is  awful." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  graver.  "In  what  way  aw 
ful?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  His  eye  was  now  cold 
enough  to  give  her,  in  her  chill,  a  flurried  sense  that 
she  might  displease  him  least  by  a  graceful  lightness. 
"The  Duchess  and  Lord  Petherton  are  like  you  and 
me." 

"Is  it  a  conundrum?"     He  was  serious  indeed. 

"They're  one  of  the  couples  who  are  invited  to 
gether."  But  his  face  reflected  so  little  success  for  her 
levity  that  it  was  in  another  tone  she  presently  added : 
"  Mitchy  really  ought  n't."  Her  friend,  in  silence, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ground;  an  attitude  in  which 
there  was  something  to  make  her  strike  rather  wild. 
"  But  of  course,  kind  as  he  is,  he  can  scarcely  be  called 
particular.  He  has  his  ideas  —  he  thinks  nothing 
matters.  He  says  we've  all  come  to  a  pass  that's  the 
end  of  everything." 

228 


THE  DUCHESS 

Mr.  Longdon  remained  mute  a  while,  and  when 
he  at  last  raised  his  eyes  it  was  without  meeting 
Nanda's  and  with  some  dryness  of  manner.  "The 
end  of  everything  ?  One  might  easily  receive  that 
impression." 

He  again  became  mute,  and  there  was  a  pause  be 
tween  them  of  some  length,  accepted  by  Nanda  with 
an  anxious  stillness  that  it  might  have  touched  a  spec 
tator  to  observe.  She  sat  there  as  if  waiting  for  some 
further  sign,  only  wanting  not  to  displease  her  friend, 
yet  unable  to  pretend  to  play  any  part  and  with  some 
thing  in  her  really  that  she  could  n't  take  back  now, 
something  involved  in  her  original  assumption  that 
there  was  to  be  a  kind  of  intelligence  in  their  relation. 
"I  dare  say,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  I  make  allusions 
you  don't  like.  But  I  keep  forgetting." 

He  waited  a  moment  longer,  then  turned  to  her 
with  a  look  rendered  a  trifle  strange  by  the  way  it 
happened  to  reach  over  his  glasses.  It  was  even 
austerer  than  before.  "Keep  forgetting  what?" 

She  gave  after  an  instant  a  faint  feeble  smile  which 
seemed  to  speak  of  helplessness  and  wrhich,  when  at 
rare  moments  it  played  in  her  face,  was  expressive 
from  her  positive  lack  of  personal,  superficial  diffid 
ence.  "Well  —  I  don't  know."  It  was  as  if  appear 
ances  became  at  times  so  complicated  that  —  so  far 
as  helping  others  to  understand  was  concerned  —  she 
could  only  give  up. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I  want  you  to  be  with  me 
as  you  would  n't  be  —  so  to  speak  —  with  yourself. 
I  hope  you  don't  think  I  don't  want  you  to  be  frank. 
If  you  were  to  try  to  appear  to  me  anything  — !"  He 

229 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

ended  in  simple  sadness :  that,  for  instance,  would  be 
so  little  what  he  should  like. 

"Anything  different,  you  mean,  from  what  I  am  ? 
That's  just  what  I've  thought  from  the  first.  One's 
just  what  one  is  —  is  n't  one  ?  I  don't  mean  so  much," 
she  went  on,  "in  one's  character  or  temper  —  for 
they  have,  have  n't  they  ?  to  be  what 's  called  '  pro 
perly  controlled '  — as  in  one's  mind  and  what  one  sees 
and  feels  and  the  sort  of  thing  one  notices."  Nanda 
paused  an  instant;  then  "There  you  are!"  she  sim 
ply  but  rather  desperately  brought  out. 

Mr.  Longdon  considered  this  with  visible  intensity. 
"What  you  suggest  is  that  the  things  you  speak  of 
depend  on  other  people  ?" 

"Well,  every  one  is  n't  so  beautiful  as  you."  She 
had  met  him  with  promptitude,  yet  no  sooner  had  she 
spoken  than  she  appeared  again  to  encounter  a  dif 
ficulty.  "  But  there  it  is  —  my  just  saying  even  that. 
Oh  how  I  always  know  —  as  I  've  told  you  before  — 
whenever  I'm  different!  I  can't  ask  you  to  tell  me 
the  things  Granny  would  have  said,  because  that's 
simply  arranging  to  keep  myself  back  from  you,  and 
so  being  nasty  and  underhand,  which  you  naturally 
don't  want,  nor  I  either.  Nevertheless  when  I  say  the 
things  she  would  n't,  then  I  put  before  you  too  much 
—  too  much  for  your  liking  it  —  what  I  know  and 
see  and  feel.  If  we  're  both  partly  the  result  of  other 
people,  her  other  people  were  so  different."  The 
girl's  sensitive  boldness  kept  it  up,  but  there  was 
something  in  her  that  pleaded  for  patience.  "And 
yet  if  she  had  you,  so  I've  got  you  too.  It's  the  flat 
tery  of  that,  or  the  sound  of  it,  I  know,  that  must  be 

230 


THE  DUCHESS 

so  unlike  her.  Of  course  it's  awfully  like  mother;  yet 
it  is  n't  as  if  you  had  n't  already  let  me  see  —  is  it  ? 
—  that  you  don't  really  think  me  the  same."  Again 
she  stopped  a  minute,  as  to  find  her  scarce  possible 
way  with  him,  and  again  for  the  time  he  gave  no  sign. 
She  struck  out  once  more  with  her  strange  cool  lim 
pidity.  "  Granny  was  n't  the  kind  of  girl  she  could  n't 
be  —  and  so  neither  am  I." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  fallen  while  she  talked  into  some 
thing  that  might  have  been  taken  for  a  conscious 
temporary  submission  to  her;  he  had  uncrossed  his 
fidgety  legs  and,  thrusting  them  out  with  the  feet 
together,  sat  looking  very  hard  before  him,  his  chin 
sunk  on  his  breast  and  his  hands,  clasped  as  they  met, 
rapidly  twirling  their  thumbs.  So  he  remained  for  a 
time  that  might  have  given  his  young  friend  the  sense 
of  having  made  herself  right  for  him  so  far  as  she  had 
been  wrong.  He  still  had  all  her  attention,  just  as 
previously  she  had  had  his,  but,  while  he  now  simply 
gazed  and  thought,  she  watched  him  with  a  discreet 
solicitude  that  would  almost  have  represented  him  as 
a  near  relative  whom  she  supposed  unwell.  At  the 
end  he  looked  round,  and  then,  obeying  some  impulse 
that  had  gathered  in  her  while  they  sat  mute,  she  put 
out  to  him  the  tender  hand  she  might  have  offered 
to  a  sick  child.  They  had  been  talking  about  frank 
ness,  but  she  showed  a  frankness  in  this  instance  that 
made  him  perceptibly  colour.  To  that  in  turn,  how 
ever,  he  responded  only  the  more  completely,  taking 
her  hand  and  holding  it,  keeping  it  a  long  minute 
during  which  their  eyes  met  and  something  seemed 
to  clear  up  that  had  been  too  obscure  to  be  dispelled 

231 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

by  words.  Finally  he  brought  out  as  if,  though  it  was 
what  he  had  been  thinking  of,  her  gesture  had  most 
determined  him:  "I  wish  immensely  you'd  get  mar 
ried!" 

His  tone  betrayed  so  special  a  meaning  that  the 
words  had  a  sound  of  suddenness;  yet  there  was 
always  in  Nanda's  face  that  odd  preparedness  of  the 
young  person  who  has  unlearned  surprise  through 
the  habit,  in  company,  of  studiously  not  compromising 
her  innocence  by  blinking  at  things  said.  "How  can 
I  ?"  she  asked,  but  appearing  rather  to  take  up  the 
proposal  than  to  put  it  by. 

"Can't  you,  cant  you  ?"  He  spoke  pressingly  and 
kept  her  hand.  She  shook  her  head  slowly,  markedly; 
on  which  he  continued:  "You  don't  do  justice  to 
Mr.  Mitchy."  She  said  nothing,  but  her  look  was 
there  and  it  made  him  resume:  "Impossible?" 

"Impossible."  At  this,  letting  her  go,  Mr.  Long- 
don  got  up;  he  pulled  out  his  watch.  "We  must  go 
back."  She  had  risen  with  him  and  they  stood  face 
to  face  in  the  faded  light  while  he  slipped  the  watch 
away.  "Well,  that  does  n't  make  me  wish  it  any  less." 

"  It 's  lovely  of  you  to  wish  it,  but  I  shall  be  one 
of  the  people  who  don't.  I  shall  be  at  the  end,"  said 
Nanda,  "one  of  those  who  have  n't." 

"No,  my  child,"  he  returned  gravely  —  "you  shall 
never  be  anything  so  sad." 

"Why  not  —  if  you've  been  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  a  little,  quietly,  and  then,  putting 
out  his  hand,  passed  her  own  into  his  arm.  "  Exactly 
because  I  have." 


Ill 


"WOULD  you,"  the  Duchess  said  to  him  the  next  day, 
"be  for  five  minutes  awfully  kind  to  my  poor  little 
niece  ? "  The  words  were  spoken  in  charming  en 
treaty  as  he  issued  from  the  house  late  on  the  Sunday 
afternoon  —  the  second  evening  of  his  stay,  which 
the  next  morning  was  to  bring  to  an  end  —  and  on 
his  meeting  the  speaker  at  one  of  the  extremities  of 
the  wide  cool  terrace.  There  was  at  this  point  a  sub 
sidiary  flight  of  steps  by  which  she  had  just  mounted 
from  the  grounds,  one  of  her  purposes  being  appar 
ently  to  testify  afresh  to  the  anxious  supervision  of 
little  Aggie  she  had  momentarily  suffered  herself  to 
be  diverted  from.  This  young  lady,  established  in 
the  pleasant  shade  on  a  sofa  of  light  construction 
designed  for  the  open  air,  offered  the  image  of  a  pa 
tience  of  which  it  was  a  questionable  kindness  to  break 
the  spell.  It  was  that  beautiful  hour  when,  toward 
the  close  of  the  happiest  days  of  summer,  such  places 
as  the  great  terrace  at  Mertle  present  to- the  fancy  a 
recall  of  the  banquet-hall  deserted  —  deserted  by  the 
company  lately  gathered  at  tea  and  now  dispersed, 
according  to  affinities  and  combinations  promptly  felt 
and  perhaps  quite  as  promptly  criticised,  either  in 
quieter  chambers  where  intimacy  might  deepen  or 
in  gardens  and  under  trees  where  the  stillness  knew 
the  click  of  balls  and  the  good  humour  of  games. 
There  had  been  chairs,  on  the  terrace,  pushed  about; 

233 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

there  were  ungathered  teacups  on  the  level  top  of  the 
parapet;  the  servants  in  fact,  in  the  manner  of 
"hands"  mustered  by  a  whistle  on  the  deck  of  a  ship, 
had  just  arrived  to  restore  things  to  an  order  soon 
again  to  be  broken.  There  were  scattered  couples  in 
sight  below  and  an  idle  group  on  the  lawn,  out  of  the 
midst  of  which,  in  spite  of  its  detachment,  somebody 
was  sharp  enough  sometimes  to  cry  "Out! "  The  high 
daylight  was  still  in  the  sky,  but  with  just  the  fore 
knowledge  already  of  the  long  golden  glow  in  which 
the  many- voiced  caw  of  the  rooks  would  sound  at  once 
sociable  and  sad.  There  was  a  great  deal  all  about 
to  be  aware  of  and  to  look  at,  but  little  Aggie  had  her 
eyes  on  a  book  over  which  her  pretty  head  was  bent 
with  a  docility  visible  even  from  afar.  "I've  a  friend 
—  down  there  by  the  lake  —  to  go  back  to,"  the 
Duchess  went  on,  "and  I'm  on  my  way  to  my  room 
to  get  a  letter  that  I  've  promised  to  show  him.  I  shall 
immediately  bring  it  down  and  then  in  a  few  minutes 
be  able  to  relieve  you.  I  don't  leave  her  alone  too 
much  —  one  does  n't,  you  know,  in  a  house  full  of 
people,  a  child  of  that  age.  Besides "  —  and  Mr. 
Longdon's  interlocutress  was  even  more  confiding  — 
"  I  do  want  you  so  very  intensely  to  know  her.  You, 
par  exemple,  you  're  what  I  should  like  to  give  her." 
Mr.  Longdon  looked  the  noble  lady,  in  acknowledge 
ment  of  her  appeal,  straight  in  the  face,  and  who  can 
tell  whether  or  no  she  acutely  guessed  from  his  expres 
sion  that  he  recognised  this  particular  juncture  as 
written  on  the  page  of  his  doom  ?  —  whether  she 
heard  him  inaudibly  say  "Ah  here  it  is :  I  knew  it 
would  have  to  come!"  She  would  at  any  rate  have 

234 


THE  DUCHESS 

been  astute  enough,  had  this  miracle  occurred,  quite 
to  complete  his  sense  for  her  own  understanding  and 
suffer  it  to  make  no  difference  in  the  tone  in  which 
she  still  confronted  him.  "Oh  I  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns  —  I  know  you  have  n't  wanted  to  know  me. 
If  you  had  you  'd  have  called  on  me  —  I  've  given  you 
plenty  of  hints  and  little  coughs.  Now,  you  see,  I  don't 
cough  any  more  —  I  just  rush  at  you  and  grab  you. 
You  don't  call  on  me  —  so  I  call  on  you.  There  is  n't 
any  indecency  moreover  that  I  won't  commit  for  my 
child." 

Mr.  Longdon's  impenetrability  crashed  like  glass 
at  the  elbow-touch  of  this  large  handsome  practised 
woman,  who  walked  for  him,  like  some  brazen  pagan 
goddess,  in  a  cloud  of  queer  legend.  He  looked  off  at 
her  child,  who,  at  a  distance  and  not  hearing  them, 
had  not  moved.  "I  know  she's  a  great  friend  of 
Nanda's." 

"Has  Nanda  told  you  that?" 
"Often  —  taking  such  an  interest  in  her." 
"I'm  glad  she  thinks  so  then  —  though  really  her 
interests  are  so  various.     But  come  to  my  baby.     I 
don't  make  her  come,"  she  explained  as  she  swept 
him  along,  "because  I  want  you  just  to  sit  down  by 
her  there  and  keep  the  place,  as  one  may  say — !" 
"Well,  for  whom  ?"  he  demanded  as  she  stopped. 
It  was  her  step  that  had  checked  itself  as  well  as  her 
tongue,  and  again,  suddenly,  they  stood  quite  con 
sciously  and  vividly  opposed.   "  Can  I  trust  you  ? "  the 
Duchess  brought  out.  Again  then  she  took  herself  up. 
"But  as  if  I  were  n't  already  doing  it!    It's  because 
I  do  trust  you  so   utterly  that  I  have  n't  been  able 

235 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

any  longer  to  keep  my  hands  off  you.  The  person  I 
want  the  place  for  is  none  other  than  Mitchy  himself, 
and  half  my  occupation  now  is  to  get  it  properly  kept 
for  him.  Lord  Petherton  's  immensely  kind,  but  Lord 
Petherton  can't  do  everything.  I  know  you  really 
like  our  host  — !" 

Mr.  Longdon,  at  this,  interrupted  her  with  a  certain 
coldness.  "How,  may  I  ask,  do  you  know  it?" 

But  with  a  brazen  goddess  to  deal  with — !  This 
personage  had  to  fix  him  but  an  instant.  "Because, 
you  dear  honest  man,  you're  here.  You  would  n't  be 
if  you  hated  him,  for  you  don't  practically  con 
done—!" 

This  time  he  broke  in  with  his  eyes  on  the  child. 
"  I  feel  on  the  contrary,  I  assure  you,  that  I  condone 
a  great  deal." 

"Well,  don't  boast  of  your  cynicism,"  she  laughed, 
"till  you're  sure  of  all  it  covers.  Let  the  right  thing 
for  you  be,"  she  went  on,  "that  Nanda  herself  wants 
it."' 

"Nanda  herself?"  He  continued  to  watch  little 
Aggie,  who  had  never  yet  turned  her  head.  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  understand  you." 

She  swept  him  on  again.  "I'll  come  to  you  pre 
sently  and  explain.  I  must  get  my  letter  for  Pether 
ton  ;  after  which  I  '11  give  up  Mitchy,  whom  I  was 
going  to  find,  and  since  I  've  broken  the  ice  —  if  it 
is  n't  too  much  to  say  to  such  a  polar  bear !  —  I  '11 
show  you  le  fond  de  ma  pens'ee.  Baby  darling,"  she 
said  to  her  niece,  "keep  Mr.  Longdon.  Show  him," 
she  benevolently  suggested,  "what  you've  been 
reading."  Then  again  to  her  fellow  guest,  as  arrested 

236 


THE  DUCHESS 

by  this  very  question:  " Caro  signore,  have  you 
a  possible  book?" 

Little  Aggie  had  got  straight  up  and  was  holding 
out  her  volume,  which  Mr.  Longdon,  all  courtesy  for 
her,  glanced  at.  "  Stories  from  English  History.  Oh! " 

His  ejaculation,  though  vague,  was  not  such  as  to 
prevent  the  girl  from  venturing  gently:  "Have  you 
read  it?" 

Mr.  Longdon,  receiving  her  pure  little  smile, 
showed  he  felt  he  had  never  so  taken  her  in  as  at  this 
moment,  as  well  as  also  that  she  was  a  person  with 
whom  he  should  surely  get  on.  "  I  think  I  must  have." 

Little  Aggie  was  still  more  encouraged,  but  not  to 
the  point  of  keeping  anything  back.  "It  has  n't  any 
author.  It's  anonymous." 

The  Duchess  borrowed,  for  another  question  to 
Mr.  Longdon,  not  a  little  of  her  gravity.  "  Is  it  all 
right?" 

"I  don't  know"  —  his  answer  was  to  Aggie. 
"There  have  been  some  horrid  things  in  English 
history." 

"Oh  horrid  —  haven't  there?"  Aggie,  whose 
speech  had  the  prettiest  faintest  foreignness,  sweetly 
and  eagerly  quavered. 

"Well,  darling,  Mr.  Longdon  will  recommend  to 
you  some  nice  historical  work  —  for  we  love  history, 
don't  we  ?  —  that  leaves  the  horrors  out.  We  like  to 
know,"  the  Duchess  explained  to  the  authority  she 
invoked,  "the  cheerful  happy  right  things.  There 
are  so  many,  after  all,  and  this  is  the  place  to  remem 
ber  them.  A  tantot." 

As  she  passed  into  the  house  by  the  nearest  of  the 
237 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

long  windows  that  stood  open  Mr.  Longdon  placed 
himself  beside  her  little  charge,  whom  he  treated,  for 
the  next  ten  minutes,  with  an  exquisite  courtesy.  A 
person  who  knew  him  well  would,  if  present  at  the 
scene,  have  found  occasion  in  it  to  be  freshly  aware 
that  he  was  in  his  quiet  way  master  of  two  distinct 
kinds  of  urbanity,  the  kind  that  added  to  distance  and 
the  kind  that  diminished  it.  Such  an  analyst  would 
furthermore  have  noted,  in  respect  to  the  aunt  and 
the  niece,  of  which  kind  each  had  the  benefit,  and 
might  even  have  gone  so  far  as  to  detect  in  him  some 
absolute  betrayal  of  the  impression  produced  on  him 
by  his  actual  companion,  some  irradiation  of  his  certi 
tude  that,  from  the  point  of  viewr  under  which  she  had 
been  formed,  she  was  a  remarkable,  a  rare  success. 
Since  to  create  a  particular  little  rounded  and  tinted 
innocence  had  been  aimed  at,  the  fruit  had  been 
grown  to  the  perfection  of  a  peach  on  a  sheltered 
wall,  and  this  quality  of  the  object  resulting  from 
a  process  might  well  make  him  feel  himself  in  contact 
with  something  wholly  new.  Little  Aggie  differed 
from  any  young  person  he  had  ever  met  in  that  she 
had  been  deliberately  prepared  for  consumption  and 
in  that  furthermore  the  gentleness  of  her  spirit  had 
immensely  helped  the  preparation.  Nanda,  beside 
her,  was  a  Northern  savage,  and  the  reason  was 
partly  that  the  elements  of  that  young  lady's  nature 
were  already,  were  publicly,  were  almost  indecorously 
active.  They  were  practically  there  for  good  or  for 
ill;  experience  was  still  to  come  and  what  they  might 
work  out  to  still  a  mystery;  but  the  sum  would  get  it 
self  done  with  the  figures  now  on  the  slate.  On  little 

238 


THE  DUCHESS 

Aggie's  slate  the  figures  were  yet  to  be  written ;  which 
sufficiently  accounted  for  the  difference  of  the  two 
surfaces.  Both  the  girls  struck  him  as  lambs  with  the 
great  shambles  of  life  in  their  future ;  but  while  one, 
with  its  neck  in  a  pink  ribbon,  had  no  consciousness 
but  that  of  being  fed  from  the  hand  with  the  small 
sweet  biscuit  of  unobjectionable  knowledge,  the  other 
struggled  with  instincts  and  forebodings,  with  the 
suspicion  of  its  doom  and  the  far-borne  scent,  in  the 
flowery  fields,  of  blood. 

"Oh  Nanda,  she's  my  best  friend  after  three  or 
four  others." 

"After  so  many  ?"  Mr.  Longdon  laughed.  "Don't 
you  think  that's  rather  a  back  seat,  as  they  say,  for 
one's  best  ? " 

"A  back  seat?"  —  she  wondered  with  a  purity! 

"If  you  don't  understand,"  said  her  companion, 
"  it  serves  me  right,  as  your  aunt  did  n't  leave  me  with 
you  to  teach  you  the  slang  of  the  day." 

"The  *  slang'  ?"  —  she  again  spotlessly  speculated. 

"You  've  never  even  heard  the  expression  ?  I  should 
think  that  a  great  compliment  to  our  time  if  it  were  n't 
mt  I  fear  it  may  have  been  only  the  name  that  has 
>een  kept  from  you." 

The  light  of  ignorance  in  the  child's  smile  was  pos 
itively  golden.  "The  name?"  she  again  echoed. 

She  understood  too  little  —  he  gave  it  up.  "And 
rho  are  all  the  other  best  friends  whom  poor  Nanda 
>mes  after  ? " 

"Well,  there's  my  aunt,  and  Miss  Merriman,  and 
Jelsomina,  and  Dr.  Beltram." 

"And  who,  please,  is  Miss  Merriman?" 
239 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"She's  my  governess,  don't  you  know?  —  but 
such  a  deliciously  easy  governess." 

"That,  I  suppose,  is  because  she  has  such  a  de 
liciously  easy  pupil.  And  who  is  Gelsomina  ? "  Mr. 
Longdon  enquired. 

"She's  my  old  nurse  —  my  old  maid." 

"I  see.  Well,  one  must  always  be  kind  to  old 
maids.  But  who's  Dr.  Bertram?" 

"Oh  the  most  intimate  friend  of  all.  We  tell  him 
everything." 

There  was  for  Mr.  Longdon  in  this,  with  a  slight 
incertitude,  an  effect  of  drollery.  "Your  little  trou 
bles?" 

"Ah  they're  not  always  so  little!  And  he  takes 
them  all  away." 

"Always  ?  —  on  the  spot  ?" 

"Sooner  or  later,"  said  little  Aggie  with  serenity. 
"But  why  not?" 

"W7hy  not  indeed  ?"  he  laughed.  "It  must  be  very 
plain  sailing."  Decidedly  she  was,  as  Nanda  had  said, 
an  angel,  and  there  was  a  wonder  in  her  possession  on 
this  footing  of  one  of  the  most  expressive  little  faces 
that  even  her  expressive  race  had  ever  shown  him. 
Formed  to  express  everything,  it  scarce  expressed  as 
yet  even  a  consciousness.  All  the  elements  of  play 
were  in  it,  but  they  had  nothing  to  play  with.  It  was 
a  rest  moreover,  after  so  much  that  he  had  lately  been 
through,  to  be  with  a  person  for  whom  questions  were 
so  simple.  "  But  he  sounds  all  the  same  like  the  kind 
of  doctor  whom,  as  soon  as  one  hears  of  him,  one 
wants  to  send  for." 

The  young  girl  had  at  this  a  small  light  of  confusion. 
240 


THE  DUCHESS 

"Oh  I  don't  mean  he's  a  doctor  for  medicine.  He's  a 
clergyman  —  and  my  aunt  says  he's  a  saint.  I  don't 
think  you've  many  in  England,"  little  Aggie  contin 
ued  to  explain. 

"  Many  saints  ?  I  'm  afraid  not.  Your  aunt  's  very 
happy  to  know  one.  We  should  call  Dr.  Beltram  in 
England  a  priest." 

"Oh  but  he's  English.  And  he  knows  everything 
we  do  —  and  everything  we  think." 

"We'  —  your  aunt,  your  governess  and  your 
nurse?  What  a  varied  wealth  of  knowledge!" 

"Ah  Miss  Merriman  and  Gelsomina  tell  him  only 
what  they  like." 

"And  do  you  and  the  Duchess  tell  him  what  you 


"Oh  often  —  but  we  always  like  him  —  no  matter 
what  we  tell  him.  And  we  know  that  just  the  same 
he  always  likes  us." 

"I  see  then  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  very 
gravely  now,  "what  a  friend  he  must  be.  So  it's 
after  all  this,"  he  continued  in  a  moment,  "that 
Nanda  comes  in  ?" 

His  companion  had  to  consider,  but  suddenly  she 
caught  assistance.  "This  one,  I  think,  comes  before." 
Lord  Petherton,  arriving  apparently  from  the  garden, 
had  drawn  near  unobserved  by  Mr.  Longdon  and 
the  next  moment  was  within  hail.  "I  see  him  very 
often,"  she  continued  —  "oftener  than  Nanda.  Oh 
but  then  Nanda.  And  then,"  little  Aggie  wound  up, 
"Mr.  Mitchy." 

"Oh  I'm  glad  he  comes  in,"  Mr.  Longdon  re 
turned,  "though  rather  far  down  in  the  list."  Lord 

241 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Petherton  was  now  before  them,  there  being  no  one 
else  on  the  terrace  to  speak  to,  and,  with  the  odd  look 
of  an  excess  of  physical  power  that  almost  blocked 
the  way,  he  seemed  to  give  them  in  the  flare  of  his 
big  teeth  the  benefit  of  a  kind  of  brutal  geniality.  It 
was  always  to  be  remembered  for  him  that  he  could 
scarce  show  without  surprising  you  an  adjustment  to 
the  smaller  conveniences;  so  that  when  he  took  up 
a  trifle  it  was  not  perforce  in  every  case  the  sign  of 
an  uncanny  calculation.  When  the  elephant  in  the 
show  plays  the  fiddle  it  must  be  mainly  with  the  pre 
sumption  of  consequent  apples;  which  was  why, 
doubtless,  this  personage  had  half  the  time  the  air 
of  assuring  you  that,  really  civilised  as  his  type  had 
now  become,  no  apples  were  required.  Mr.  Longdon 
viewed  him  with  a  vague  apprehension  and  as  if  quite 
unable  to  meet  the  question  of  what  he  would  have 
called  for  such  a  personage  the  social  responsibility. 
Did  this  specimen  of  his  class  pull  the  tradition  down 
or  did  he  just  take  it  where  he  found  it  —  in  the  very 
different  place  from  that  in  which,  on  ceasing  so  long 
ago  to  "go  out,"  Mr.  Longdon  had  left  it  ?  Our  friend 
doubtless  averted  himself  from  the  possibility  of  a 
mental  dilemma;  if  the  man  did  n't  lower  the  posi 
tion  was  it  the  position  then  that  let  down  the  man  ? 
Somehow  he  was  n't  positively  up.  More  evidence 
would  be  needed  to  decide;  yet  it  was  just  of  more 
evidence  that  one  remained  rather  in  dread.  Lord 
Petherton  was  kind  to  little  Aggie,  kind  to  her  com 
panion,  kind  to  every  one,  after  Mr.  Longdon  had 
explained  that  she  was  so  good  as  to  be  giving  him 
the  list  of  her  dear  friends.  "  I  'm  only  a  little  dis- 

242 


THE  DUCHESS 

mayed,"  the  elder  man  said,  "to  find  Mr.  Mitchett 
at  the  bottom." 

"Oh  but  it's  an  awfully  short  list,  is  n't  it?  If  it 
consists  only  of  me  and  Mitchy  he 's  not  so  very  low 
down.  We  don't  allow  her  very  many  friends;  we 
look  out  too  well  for  ourselves."  He  addressed  the 
child  as  on  an  easy  jocose  understanding.  "Is  the 
question,  Aggie,  whether  we  shall  allow  you  Mr. 
Longdon  ?  Won't  that  rather  *  do '  for  us  —  for 
Mitchy  and  me  ?  I  say,  Duchess,"  he  went  on  as  this 
lady  reappeared,  "are  we  going  to  allow  her  Mr. 
Longdon  and  do  we  quite  realise  what  we  're  about  ? 
We  mount  guard  awfully,  you  know" — he  carried 
the  joke  back  to  the  person  he  had  named.  "We 
sift  and  we  sort,  we  pick  the  candidates  over,  and 
I  should  like  to  hear  any  one  say  that  in  this  case 
at  least  I  don't  keep  a  watch  on  my  taste.  Oh  we 
close  in!" 

The  Duchess,  the  object  of  her  quest  in  her  hand, 
had  come  back.  "Well  then  Mr.  Longdon  will  close 
with  us  —  you  '11  consider  henceforth  that  he 's  as 
safe  as  yourself.  Here's  the  letter  I  wanted  you  to 
read  —  with  which  you  '11  please  take  a  turn,  in  strict 
charge  of  the  child,  and  then  restore  her  to  us.  If  you 
don't  come  I  shall  know  you've  found  Mitchy  and 
shall  be  at  peace.  Go,  little  heart,"  she  continued  to 
the  child,  "  but  leave  me  your  book  to  look  over  again. 
I  don't  know  that  I  'm  quite  sure ! "  She  sent  them  off 
together,  but  had  a  grave  protest  as  her  friend  put  out 
his  hand  for  the  volume.  "No,  Petherton  —  not  for 
books;  for  her  reading  I  can't  say  I  do  trust  you.  But 
for  everything  else  —  quite!"  she  declared  to  Mr. 

243 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Longdon  with  a  look  of  conscientious  courage  as  their 
companion  withdrew.  "  I  do  believe,"  she  pursued  in 
the  same  spirit,  "in  a  certain  amount  of  intelligent 
confidence.  Really  nice  men  are  steadied  by  the 
sense  of  your  having  had  it.  But  I  would  n't,"  she 
added  gaily,  "trust  him  all  round!" 


IV 


MANY  things  at  Mertle  were  strange  for  her  interloc 
utor,  but  nothing  perhaps  as  yet  had  been  so  strange 
as  the  sight  of  this  arrangement  for  little  Aggie's 
protection;  an  arrangement  made  in  the  interest  of 
her  remaining  as  a  young  person  of  her  age  and  her 
monde  —  so  her  aunt  would  have  put  it  —  should 
remain.  The  strangest  part  of  the  impression  too 
was  that  the  provision  might  really  have  its  happy 
side  and  his  lordship  understand  definitely  better 
than  any  one  else  his  noble  friend's  whole  theory  of 
perils  and  precautions.  The  child  herself,  the  spec 
tator  of  the  incident  was  sure  enough,  understood 
nothing;  but  the  understandings  that  surrounded 
her,  filling  all  the  air,  made  it  a  heavier  compound 
to  breathe  than  any  Mr.  Longdon  had  yet  tasted. 
This  heaviness  had  grown  for  him  through  the  long 
sweet  summer  day,  and  there  was  something  in  his 
at  last  finding  himself  ensconced  with  the  Duchess 
that  made  it  supremely  oppressive.  The  contact  was 
one  that,  none  the  less,  he  would  not  have  availed 
himself  of  a  decent  pretext  to  avoid.  With  so  many 
fine  mysteries  playing  about  him  there  was  relief,  at 
the  point  he  had  reached,  rather  than  alarm,  in  the 
thought  of  knowing  the  worst ;  which  it  pressed  upon 
him  somehow  that  the  Duchess  must  not  only  alto 
gether  know  but  must  in  any  relation  quite  naturally 
communicate.  It  fluttered  him  rather  that  a  person 

245 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

who  had  an  understanding  with  Lord  Petherton 
should  so  single  him  out  as  to  wish  for  one  also  with 
himself;  such  a  person  must  either  have  great 
variety  of  mind  or  have  a  wonderful  idea  of  his 
variety.  It  was  true  indeed  that  Mr.  Mitchett  must 
have  the  most  extraordinary  understanding,  and  yet 
with  Mr.  Mitchett  he  now  found  himself  quite 
pleasantly  at  his  ease.  Their  host,  however,  was  a 
person  sui  generis,  whom  he  had  accepted,  once  for 
all,  the  inconsequence  of  liking  in  conformity  with 
the  need  he  occasionally  felt  to  put  it  on  record  that 
he  was  not  narrow-minded.  Perhaps  at  bottom  he 
most  liked  Mitchy  because  Mitchy  most  liked 
Nanda;  there  hung  about  him  still  moreover  the 
faded  fragrance  of  the  superstition  that  hospitality 
not  declined  is  one  of  the  things  that  "oblige."  It 
obliged  the  thoughts,  for  Mr.  Longdon,  as  well  as 
the  manners,  and  in  the  especial  form  in  which  he 
was  now  committed  to  it  would  have  made  him,  had 
he  really  thought  any  ill,  ask  himself  what  the  deuce 
then  he  was  doing  in  the  man's  house.  All  of  which 
did  n't  prevent  some  of  Mitchy's  queer  condonations 
—  if  condonations  in  fact  they  were  — from  not  wholly, 
by  themselves,  soothing  his  vague  unrest,  an  unrest 
which  never  had  been  so  great  as  at  the  moment  he 
heard  the  Duchess  abruptly  say  to  him:  "Do  you 
know  my  idea  about  Nanda  ?  It's  my  particular  de 
sire  you  should  —  the  reason,  really,  why  I  've  thus 
laid  violent  hands  on  you.  Nanda,  my  dear  man, 
should  marry  at  the  very  first  moment." 

This  was  more  interesting  than  he  had  expected, 
and  the  effect  produced  by  his  interlocutress,  as  well 

246 


THE  DUCHESS 

as  doubtless  not  lost  on  her,  was  shown  in  his  sup 
pressed  start.  "There  has  been  no  reason  why  I 
should  attribute  to  you  any  judgement  of  the  matter; 
but  I  've  had  one  myself,  and  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  n't  say  frankly  that  it's  very  much  the  one 
you  express.  It  would  be  a  very  good  thing." 

"A  very  good  thing,  but  none  of  my  business  ?"  — 
the  Duchess's  vivacity  was  not  unamfable. 

It  was  on  this  circumstance  that  her  companion  for 
an  instant  perhaps  meditated.  "It's  probably  not  in 
my  interest  to  say  that.  I  should  give  you  too  easy 
a  retort.  It  would  strike  any  one  as  quite  as  much 
your  business  as  mine." 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be  somebody's,  you  know.  One 
would  suppose  it  to  be  her  mother's  —  her  father's ; 
but  in  this  country  the  parents  are  even  more  eman 
cipated  than  the  children.  Suppose,  really,  since  it 
appears  to  be  nobody's  affair,  that  you  and  I  do  make 
it  ours.  We  need  n't  either  of  us,"  she  continued,  "be 
concerned  for  the  other's  reasons,  though  I'm  per 
fectly  ready,  I  assure  you,  to  put  my  cards  on  the 
table.  You  've  your  feelings  —  we  know  they  're  beau 
tiful.  I,  on  my  side,  have  mine  —  for  which  I  don't 
pretend  anything  but  that  they're  strong.  They  can 
dispense  with  being  beautiful  when  they're  so  per 
fectly  settled.  Besides,  I  may  mention,  they're  rather 
nice  than  otherwise.  Edward  and  I  have  a  cousinage, 
though  for  all  he  does  to  keep  it  up  — !  If  he  leaves 
his  children  to  play  in  the  street  I  take  it  seriously 
enough  to  make  an  occasional  dash  for  them  before 
they're  run  over.  And  I  want  for  Nanda  simply  the 
man  she  herself  wants  —  it  is  n't  as  if  I  wanted  for 

247 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

her  a  dwarf  or  a  hunchback  or  a  coureur  or  a  drunk 
ard.  Vanderbank's  a  man  whom  any  woman, 
don't  you  think  ?  might  be  —  whom  more  than  one 
woman  is  —  glad  of  for  herself:  beau  comme  le  jour, 
awfully  conceited  and  awfully  patronising,  but  clever 
and  successful  and  yet  liked,  and  without,  so  far  as 
I  know,  any  of  the  terrific  appendages  which  in  this 
country  so  often  diminish  the  value  of  even  the  pleas- 
antest  people.  He  has  n't  five  horrible  unmarried 
sisters  for  his  wife  to  have  always  on  a  visit.  The  way 
your  women  don't  marry  is  the  ruin  here  of  society, 
and  I  've  been  assured  in  good  quarters  —  though  I 
don't  know  so  much  about  that  —  the  ruin  also  of 
conversation  and  of  literature.  Is  n't  it  precisely  just 
a  little  to  keep  Nanda  herself  from  becoming  that 
kind  of  appendage  —  say  to  poor  Harold,  say,  one 
of  these  days,  to  her  younger  brother  and  sister  — 
that  friends  like  you  and  me  feel  the  importance  of 
bestirring  ourselves  in  time  ?  Of  course  she 's  sup 
posedly  young,  but  she 's  really  any  age  you  like :  your 
London  world  so  fearfully  batters  and  bruises  them." 
She  had  gone  fast  and  far,  but  it  had  given  Mr. 
Longdon  time  to  feel  himself  well  afloat.  There  were 
so  many  things  in  it  all  to  take  up  that  he  laid  his 
hand  —  of  which,  he  was  not  unconscious,  the  feeble 
ness  exposed  him  —  on  the  nearest.  "Why  I 'm  sure 
her  mother  —  after  twenty  years  of  it  —  is  fresh 
enough." 

"Fresh  ?    You  find  Mrs.  Brook  fresh  ?" 
The  Duchess  had  a  manner  that,  in  its  all-know- 
ingness,  rather  humiliated  than  encouraged;  but  he 
was  all  the  more  resolute  for  being  conscious  of  his 

248 


THE  DUCHESS 

own  reserves.  "  It  seems  to  me  it 's  fresh  to  look  about 
thirty." 

"That  indeed  would  be  perfect.    But  she  does  n't 

—  she  looks  about  three.    She  simply  looks  a  baby." 
"Oh  Duchess,  you're  really  too   particular!"  he 

retorted,  feeling  that,  as  the  trodden  worm  will  turn, 
anxiety  itself  may  sometimes  tend  to  wit. 

She  met  him  in  her  own  way.  "I  know  what  I 
mean.  My  niece  is  a  person  /  call  fresh.  It's  war 
ranted,  as  they  say  in  the  shops.  Besides,"  she  went 
on,  "if  a  married  woman  has  been  knocked  about 
that 's  only  a  part  of  her  condition.  Elle  Va  lien  voulu, 
and  if  you're  married  you're  married;  it's  the  smoke 

—  or  call  it  the  soot !  —  of  the  fire.   You  know,  your 
self,"  she  roundly  pursued,  "that  Nanda's  situation 
appals  you." 

"Oh  'appals'!"  he  restrictively  murmured. 

It  even  tried  a  little  his  companion's  patience. 
"There  you  are,  you  English — you'll  never  face 
your  own  music.  It's  amazing  what  you'd  rather  do 
with  a  thing  —  anything  not  to  shoot  at  or  to  make 
money  with  —  than  look  at  its  meaning.  If  I  wished 
to  save  the  girl  as  you  wish  it  I  should  know  exactly 
from  what.  But  why  differ  about  reasons,"  she  asked, 
"when  we're  at  one  about  the  fact  ?  I  don't  mention 
the  greatest  of  Vanderbank's  merits,"  she  added  — 
"his  having  so  delicious  a  friend.  By  whom,  let  me 
hasten  to  assure  you,"  she  laughed,  "I  don't  in  the 
least  mean  Mrs.  Brook !  She  is  delicious  if  you  like, 
but  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  caro  mio  —  if  you  need 
to  be  told  —  that  for  effective  action  on  him  you  're 
worth  twenty  of  her." 

249 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

What  was  most  visible  in  Mr.  Longdon  was  that, 
however  it  came  to  him,  he  had  rarely  before,  all  at 
once,  had  so  much  given  him  to  think  about.  Again 
the  only  way  to  manage  was  to  take  what  came  up 
permost.  "By  effective  action  you  mean  action  on 
the  matter  of  his  proposing  for  Nanda  ?" 

The  Duchess's  assent  was  noble.  "You  can  make 
him  propose  —  you  can  make,  I  mean,  a  sure  thing 
of  it.  You  can  doter  the  bride."  Then  as  with  the 
impulse  to  meet  benevolently  and  more  than  half 
way  her  companion's  imperfect  apprehension:  "You 
can  settle  on  her  something  that  will  make  her  a 
parti."  His  apprehension  was  perhaps  imperfect, 
but  it  could  still  lead  somehow  to  his  flushing  all  over, 
and  this  demonstration  the  Duchess  as  quickly  took 
into  account.  "  Poor  Edward,  you  know,  won't  give 
her  a  penny." 

Decidedly  she  went  fast,  but  Mr.  Longdon  in  a 
moment  had  caught  up.  "  Mr.  Vanderbank  —  your 
idea  is  —  would  require  on  the  part  of  his  wife  some 
thing  of  that  sort  ? " 

"  Pray  who  would  n't  —  in  the  world  we  all  move 
in  —  require  it  quite  as  much  ?  Mr.  Vanderbank, 
I  'm  assured,  has  no  means  of  his  own  at  all,  and  if 
he  does  n't  believe  in  impecunious  marriages  it's  not 
I  who  shall  be  shocked  at  him.  For  myself  I  simply 
despise  them.  He  has  nothing  but  a  poor  official  sal 
ary.  If  it's  enough  for  one  it  would  be  little  for  two, 
and  would  be  still  less  for  half  a  dozen.  They're  just 
the  people  to  have,  that  blessed  pair,  a  fine  old  Eng 
lish  family." 

Mr.  Longdon  was  now  fairly  abreast  of  it.  "What 
250 


THE  DUCHESS 

it  comes  to  then,  the  idea  you're  so  good  as  to  put 
before  me,  is  to  bribe  him  to  take  her." 

The  Duchess  remained  bland,  but  she  fixed  him. 
"  You  say  that  as  if  you  were  scandalised,  but  if  you 
try  Mr.  Van  with  it  I  don't  think  he  '11  be.  And  you 
won't  persuade  me,"  she  went  on  finely,  "that  you 
have  n't  yourself  thought  of  it."  She  kept  her  eyes 
on  him,  and  the  effect  of  them,  soon  enough  visible 
in  his  face,  was  such  as  presently  to  make  her  exult 
at  her  felicity.  "You're  of  a  limpidity,  dear  man! 

—  you've  only  to  be  said  'bo!'  to  and  you  confess. 
Consciously  or   unconsciously  —  the   former,  really, 
I'm    inclined    to    think — you've   wanted    him   for 
her."    She  paused  an  instant  to  enjoy  her  triumph, 
after  which  she  continued:   "And  you've  wanted  her 
for  him.    I  make  you  out,  you  '11  say  —  for  I  see  you 
coming  —  one   of  those   horrible    benevolent   busy- 
bodies  who  are  the  worst  of  the  class,  but  you  've  only 
to  think  a  little  —  if  I  may  go  so  far  —  to  see  that  no 
'making'  at  all  is  required.    You've  only  one  link 
with  the  Brooks,  but  that  link  is  golden.  How  can  we, 
all  of  us,  by  this  time,  not  have  grasped  and  admired 
the  beauty  of  your  feeling  for  Lady  Julia  ?  There  it  is 

—  I  make  you  wince :   to  speak  of  it  is  to  profane  it. 
Let  us  by  all  means  not  speak  of  it  then,  but  let  us 
act  on  it."    He  had  at  last  turned  his  face  from  her, 
and  it  now  took  in,  from  the  vantage  of  his  high  po 
sition,  only  the  loveliness  of  the  place  and  the  hour, 
which  included  a  glimpse  of  Lord  Petherton  and  little 
Aggie,  who,  down  in  the  garden,  slowly  strolled  in 
familiar  union.     Each  had  a  hand  in  the  other's, 
swinging  easily  as  they  went;  their  talk  was  evidently 

251 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

of  flowers  and  fruits  and  birds;  it  was  quite  like 
father  and  daughter.  One  could  see  half  a  mile  off  in 
short  that  they  were  n't  flirting.  Our  friend's  bewilder 
ment  came  in  odd  cold  gusts:  these  were  unreasoned 
and  capricious;  one  of  them,  at  all  events,  during  his 
companion's  pause,  must  have  roared  in  his  ears. 
Was  it  not  therefore  through  some  continuance  of  the 
sound  that  he  heard  her  go  on  speaking  ?  "  Of  course 
you  know  the  poor  child's  own  condition." 

It  took  him  a  good  while  to  answer.  "  Do  you  know 
it  ? "  he  asked  with  his  eyes  still  away. 

"If  your  question's  ironical,"  she  laughed,  "your 
irony's  perfectly  wasted.  I  should  be  ashamed  of 
myself  if,  with  my  relationship  and  my  interest,  I 
had  n't  made  sure.  Nanda  's  fairly  sick  —  as  sick 
as  a  little  cat  —  with  her  passion."  It  was  with  an 
intensity  of  silence  that  he  appeared  to  accept  this ; 
he  was  even  so  dumb  for  a  minute  that  the  oddity  of 
the  image  could  draw  from  him  no  natural  sound. 
The  Duchess  once  more,  accordingly,  recognised  an 
occasion.  "It  has  doubtless  already  occurred  to  you 
that,  since  your  sentiment  for  the  living  is  the  charm 
ing  fruit  of  your  sentiment  for  the  dead,  there  would 
be  a  sacrifice  to  Lady  Julia's  memory  more  exquisite 
than  any  other." 

At  this  finally  Mr.  Longdon  turned.  "The  effort  — 
on  the  lines  you  speak  of —  for  Nanda's  happiness  ?" 

She  fairly  glowed  with  hope.  "And  by  the  same 
token  such  a  piece  of  poetic  justice !  Quite  the  loveli 
est  it  would  be,  I  think,  one  had  ever  heard  of." 

So,  for  some  time  more,  they  sat  confronted.  "I 
don't  quite  see  your  difficulty,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 

252 


THE  DUCHESS 

do  happen  to  know,  I  confess,  that  Nanda  herself 
extremely  desires  the  execution  of  your  project." 

His  friend's  smile  betrayed  no  surprise  at  this  effect 
of  her  eloquence.  "You're  bad  at  dodging.  Nanda's 
desire  is  inevitably  to  stop  off  for  herself  every  ques 
tion  of  any  one  but  Vanderbank.  If  she  wants  me  to 
succeed  in  arranging  with  Mr.  Mitchett  can  you  ask 
for  a  plainer  sign  of  her  private  predicament  ?  But 
you  've  signs  enough,  I  see "  —  she  caught  herself 
up:  "we  may  take  them  all  for  granted.  I've  known 
perfectly  from  the  first  that  the  only  difficulty  would 
come  from  her  mother  —  but  also  that  that  would  be 
stiff." 

The  movement  with  which  Mr.  Longdon  removed 
his  glasses  might  have  denoted  a  certain  fear  to  par 
ticipate  in  too  much  of  what  the  Duchess  had  known. 
"I've  not  been  ignorant  that  Mrs.  Brookenham 
favours  Mr.  Mitchett." 

But  he  was  not  to  be  let  off  with  that.  "Then 
you've  not  been  blind,  I  suppose,  to  her  reason  for 
doing  so."  He  might  not  have  been  blind,  but  his 
vision,  at  this,  scarce  showed  sharpness,  and  it  deter 
mined  in  his  interlocutress  the  shortest  of  short  cuts. 
"She  favours  Mr.  Mitchett  because  she  wants  'old 
Van'  herself." 

He  was  evidently  conscious  of  looking  at  her  hard. 
"  In  what  sense  —  herself  ? " 

"Ah  you  must  supply  the  sense ;  I  can  give  you  only 
the  fact  —  and  it 's  the  fact  that  concerns  us.  Voyons" 
she  almost  impatiently  broke  out;  "don't  try  to  cre 
ate  unnecessary  obscurities  by  being  unnecessarily 
modest.  Besides,  I'm  not  touching  your  modesty. 

253 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Supply  any  sense  whatever  that  may  miraculously 
satisfy  your  fond  English  imagination:  I  don't  insist 
in  the  least  on  a  bad  one.  She  does  want  him  herself 
—  that's  all  I  say.  ' Pourquoi  faire?'  you  ask  —  or 
rather,  being  too  shy,  don't  ask,  but  would  like  to 
if  you  dared  or  did  n't  fear  I  'd  be  shocked.  I  can't 
be  shocked,  but  frankly  I  can't  tell  you  either.  The 
situation  belongs,  I  think,  to  an  order  I  don't  under 
stand.  I  understand  either  one  thing  or  the  other  —  I 
understand  taking  a  man  up  or  letting  him  alone.  But 
I  don't  really  get  at  Mrs.  Brook.  You  must  judge  at 
any  rate  for  yourself.  Vanderbank  could  of  course 
tell  you  if  he  would  —  but  it  would  n't  be  right  that 
he  should.  So  the  one  thing  we  have  to  do  with  is  that 
she's  in  fact  against  us.  I  can  only  work  Mitchy 
through  Petherton,  but  Mrs.  Brook  can  work  him 
straight.  On  the  other  hand  that's  the  way  you,  my 
dear  man,  can  work  Vanderbank." 

One  thing  evidently  beyond  the  rest,  as  a  result  of 
this  vivid  demonstration,  disengaged  itself  to  our  old 
friend's  undismayed  sense,  but  his  consternation 
needed  a  minute  or  two  to  produce  it.  "I  can  ab 
solutely  assure  you  that  Mr.  Vanderbank  entertains 
no  sentiment  for  Mrs.  Brookenham — !" 

"That  he  may  not  keep  under  by  just  setting  his 
teeth  and  holding  on  ?  I  never  dreamed  he  does,  and 
have  nothing  so  alarming  in  store  for  you  —  ras- 
surez-vous  bien!  —  as  to  propose  that  he  shall  be  in 
vited  to  sink  a  feeling  for  the  mother  in  order  to  take 
one  up  for  the  child.  Don't,  please,  flutter  out  of  the 
whole  question  by  a  premature  scare.  I  never  sup 
posed  it 's  he  who  wants  to  keep  her.  He 's  not  in  love 

254 


THE  DUCHESS 

with  her  —  be  comforted!  But  she's  amusing  —  highly 
amusing.  I  do  her  perfect  justice.  As  your  women  go 
she  'srare.  If  she  were  French  she'd  beafemmed' esprit. 
She  has  invented  a  nuance  of  her  own  and  she  has  done 
it  all  by  herself,  for  Edward  figures  in  her  drawing- 
room  only  as  one  of  those  queer  extinguishers  of  fire 
in  the  corridors  of  hotels.  He's  just  a  bucket  on  a 
peg.  The  men,  the  young  and  the  clever  ones,  find 
it  a  house  —  and  heaven  knows  they're  right  —  with 
intellectual  elbow-room,  with  freedom  of  talk.  Most 
English  talk  is  a  quadrille  in  a  sentry-box.  You'll 
tell  me  we  go  further  in  Italy,  and  I  won't  deny  it, 
but  in  Italy  we  have  the  common  sense  not  to  have 
little  girls  in  the  room.  The  young  men  hang  about 
Mrs.  Brook,  and  the  clever  ones  ply  her  with  the  up 
roarious  appreciation  that  keeps  her  up  to  the  mark. 
She 's  in  a  prodigious  fix  —  she  must  sacrifice  either 
her  daughter  or  what  she  once  called  to  me  her  intel 
lectual  habits.  Mr.  Vanderbank,  you've  seen  for 
yourself,  is  of  these  one  of  the  most  cherished,  the 
most  confirmed.  Three  months  ago  —  it  could  n't 
be  any  longer  kept  off  —  Nanda  began  definitely  to 
'  sit ' ;  to  be  there  and  look,  by  the  tea-table,  modestly 
and  conveniently  abstracted." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  don't  think  she  looks  that, 
Duchess,"  Mr.  Longdon  lucidly  broke  in.  How  much 
she  had  carried  him  with  her  in  spite  of  himself  was 
betrayed  by  the  very  terms  of  his  dissent.  "  I  don't 
think  it  would  strike  any  one  that  she  looks  'con 
venient.'  ' 

His  companion,  laughing,  gave  a  shrug.  "Try  her 
and  perhaps  you  '11  find  her  so ! "  But  his  objection 

255 


THE  AWKWARD   AGE 

had  none  the  less  pulled  her  up  a  little.  "  I  don't  say 
she  *s  a  hypocrite,  for  it  would  certainly  be  less  decent 
for  her  to  giggle  and  wink.  It's  Mrs.  Brook's  theory 
moreover,  is  n't  it  ?  that  she  has,  from  five  to  seven 
at  least,  lowered  the  pitch.  Does  n't  she  pretend  that 
she  bears  in  mind  every  moment  the  tiresome  differ 
ence  made  by  the  presence  of  sweet  virginal  eight 
een?" 

"I  have  n't,  I'm  afraid,  a  notion  of  what  she  pre 
tends!" 

Mr.  Longdon  had  spoken  with  a  curtness  to  which 
his  friend's  particular  manner  of  overlooking  it  only 
added  significance.  "They've  become,"  she  pursued, 
"superficial  or  insincere  or  frivolous,  but  at  least 
they've  become,  with  the  way  the  drag's  put  on, 
quite  as  dull  as  other  people." 

He  showed  no  sign  of  taking  this  up ;  instead  of  it 
he  said  abruptly:  "But  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Mitchett's 
own  idea  ? " 

His  fellow  visitor  barely  hesitated.  "  It  would  be 
his  own  if  he  were  free  —  and  it  would  be  Lord 
Petherton's  for  him.  I  mean  by  his  being  free  Nanda's 
becoming  definitely  lost  to  him.  Then  it  would  be 
impossible  for  Mrs.  Brook  to  continue  to  persuade 
him,  as  she  does  now,  that  by  a  waiting  game  he'll 
come  to  his  chance.  His  chance  will  cease  to  exist, 
and  he  wants  so,  poor  darling,  to  marry.  You've 
really  now  seen  my  niece,"  she  went  on.  "That's 
another  reason  why  I  hold  you  can  help  me." 
.  "Yes  —  I 've  seen  her." 

I 

"Well,  there  she  is."  It  was  as  if  in  the  pause  that 
followed  this  they  sat  looking  at  little  absent  Aggie 

256 


THE  DUCHESS 

with  a  wonder  that  was  almost  equal.  "The  good 
God  has  given  her  to  me,"  the  Duchess  said  at 
last. 

"It  seems  to  me  then  that  she  herself  is,  in  her 
remarkable  loveliness,  really  your  help." 

"She'll  be  doubly  so  if  you  give  me  proofs  that  you 
believe  in  her."  And  the  Duchess,  appearing  to  con 
sider  that  with  this  she  had  made  herself  clear  and 
her  interlocutor  plastic,  rose  in  confident  majesty. 
"I  leave  it  to  you." 

Mr.  Longdon  did  the  same,  but  with  more  consid 
eration  now.  "  Is  it  your  expectation  that  I  shall  speak 
to  Mr.  Mitchett  ? " 

"Don't  flatter  yourself  he  won't  speak  to  you!" 

Mr.  Longdon  made  it  out.  "As  supposing  me,  you 
mean,  an  interested  party?" 

She  clapped  her  gloved  hands  for  joy.  "It's  a  de 
light  to  hear  you  practically  admit  that  you  are  one ! 
Mr.  Mitchett  will  take  anything  from  you  —  above 
all  perfect  candour.  It  is  n't  every  day  one  meets  your 
kind,  and  he 's  a  connoisseur.  I  leave  it  to  you  —  I 
leave  it  to  you." 

She  spoke  as  if  it  were  something  she  had  thrust 
bodily  into  his  hands  and  wished  to  hurry  away  from. 
He  put  his  hands  behind  him  —  straightening  him 
self  a  little,  half-kindled,  still  half-confused.  "You're 
all  extraordinary  people!" 

She  gave  a  toss  of  her  head  that  showed  her  as  not 
so  dazzled.  "You're  the  best  of  us,  caro  mio  — you 
and  Aggie:  for  Aggie's  as  good  as  you.  Mitchy's 
good  too,  however  —  Mitchy  's  beautiful.  You  see  it 's 
not  only  his  money.  He's  a  gentleman.  So  are  you. 

257 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

There  are  n't  so  many.  But  we  must  move  fast,"  she 
added  more  sharply. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  fast?" 

"What  should  I  mean  but  what  I  say  ?  If  Nanda 
does  n't  get  a  husband  early  in  the  business  — " 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  as  she  appeared  to 
pause  with  the  weight  of  her  idea. 

"Why  she  won't  get  one  late  —  she  won't  get  one 
at  all.  One,  I  mean,  of  the  kind  she'll  take.  She'll 
have  been  in  it  over-long  for  their  taste." 

She  had  moved,  looking  off  and  about  her  —  little 
Aggie  always  on  her  mind  —  to  the  flight  of  steps, 
where  she  again  hung  fire;  and  had  really  ended  by 
producing  in  him  the  manner  of  keeping  up  with  her 
to  challenge  her.  "  Been  in  what  ? " 

She  went  down  a  few  steps  while  he  stood  with  his 
face  full  of  perceptions  strained  and  scattered.  "Why 
in  the  air  they  themselves  have  infected  for  her!" 


LATE  that  night,  in  the  smoking-room,  when  the 
smokers  —  talkers  and  listeners  alike  —  were  about 
to  disperse,  Mr.  Longdon  asked  Vanderbank  to  stay, 
and  then  it  was  that  the  young  man,  to  whom  all  the 
evening  he  had  not  addressed  a  word,  could  make 
out  why,  a  little  unnaturally,  he  had  prolonged  his 
vigil.  "I've  something  particular  to  say  to  you  and 
I  've  been  waiting.  I  hope  you  don't  mind.  It's  rather 
important."  Vanderbank  expressed  on  the  spot  the 
liveliest  desire  to  oblige  him  and,  quickly  lighting  an 
other  cigarette,  mounted  again  to  the  deep  divan  with 
which  a  part  of  the  place  was  furnished.  The  smok 
ing-room  at  Mertle  was  not  unworthy  of  the  general 
nobleness,  and  the  fastidious  spectator  had  clearly 
been  reckoned  on  in  the  great  leather-covered  lounge 
that,  raised  by  a  step  or  two  above  the  floor,  applied 
its  back  to  two  quarters  of  the  wall  and  enjoyed  most 
immediately  a  view  of  the  billiard-table.  Mr.  Long 
don  continued  for  a  minute  to  roam  with  the  air  of 
dissimulated  absence  that,  during  the  previous  hour 
and  among  the  other  men,  his  companion's  eye  had 
not  lost;  he  pushed  a  ball  or  two  about,  examined  the 
form  of  an  ash-stand,  swung  his  glasses  almost  with 
violence  and  declined  either  to  smoke  or  to  sit  down. 
Vanderbank,  perched  aloft  on  the  bench  and  await 
ing  developments,  had  a  little  the  look  of  some  pre 
possessing  criminal  who,  in  court,  should  have  changed 

259 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

places  with  the  judge.  He  was  unlike  many  a  man 
of  marked  good  looks  in  that  the  effect  of  evening 
dress  was  not,  with  a  perversity  often  observed  in  such 
cases,  to  over-emphasise  his  fineness.  His  type  was 
rather  chastened  than  heightened,  and  he  sat  there 
moreover  with  a  primary  discretion  quite  in  the  note 
of  the  deference  that  from  the  first,  with  his  friend 
of  the  elder  fashion,  he  had  taken  as  imposed.  He 
had  a  strong  sense  for  shades  of  respect  and  was  now 
careful  to  loll  scarcely  more  than  with  an  official 
superior.  "If  you  ask  me,"  Mr.  Longdon  presently 
continued,  "why  at  this  hour  of  the  night  —  after  a 
day  at  best  too  heterogeneous  —  I  don't  keep  over  till 
to-morrow  whatever  I  may  have  to  say,  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  I  appeal  to  you  now  because  I  've  something 
on  my  mind  that  I  shall  sleep  the  better  for  being 
rid  of." 

There  was  space  to  circulate  in  front  of  the  haut- 
pas,  where  he  had  still  paced  and  still  swung  his 
glasses ;  but  with  these  words  he  had  paused,  lean 
ing  against  the  billiard-table,  to  meet  the  interested 
urbanity  of  the  answer  they  produced.  "Are  you 
very  sure  that  having  got  rid  of  it  you  will  sleep  ?  Is 
it  a  pure  confidence,"  Vanderbank  said,  "that  you  do 
me  the  honour  to  make  me  ?  Is  it  something  terrific 
that  requires  a  reply,  so  that  I  shall  have  to  take  ac 
count  on  my  side  of  the  rest  I  may  deprive  you  of?" 

"Don't  take  account  of  anything  —  I'm  myself 
a  man  who  always  takes  too  much.  It  is  n't  a  matter 
about  which  I  press  you  for  an  immediate  answer. 
You  can  give  me  no  answer  probably  without  a  good 
deal  of  thought.  7've  thought  a  good  deal — other- 

260 


THE  DUCHESS 

wise  I  would  n't  speak.  I  only  want  to  put  something 
before  you  and  leave  it  there." 

"I  never  see  you,"  said  Vanderbank,  "that  you 
don't  put  something  before  me." 

"That  sounds,"  his  friend  returned,  "as  if  I  rather 
overloaded — what's  the  sort  of  thing  you  fellows 
nowadays  say  ?  —  your  intellectual  board.  If  there 's 
a  congestion  of  dishes  sweep  everything  without 
scruple  away.  I've  never  put  before  you  anything 
like  this." 

He  spoke  with  a  weight  that  in  the  great  space, 
where  it  resounded  a  little,  made  an  impression  —  an 
impression  marked  by  the  momentary  pause  that 
fell  between  them.  He  partly  broke  the  silence  first 
by  beginning  to  walk  again,  and  then  Vanderbank 
broke  it  as  through  the  apprehension  of  their  becom 
ing  perhaps  too  solemn.  "Well,  you  immensely  inter 
est  me  and  you  really  could  n't  have  chosen  a  better 
time.  A  secret  —  for  we  shall  make  it  that  of  course, 
shan't  we  ?  —  at  this  witching  hour,  in  this  great  old 
house,  is  all  my  visit  here  will  have  required  to  make 
the  whole  thing  a  rare  remembrance.  So  I  assure 
you  the  more  you  put  before  me  the  better." 

Mr.  Longdon  took  up  another  ash-tray,  but  with 
the  air  of  doing  so  as  a  direct  consequence  of  Vander- 
bank's  tone.  After  he  had  laid  it  down  he  put  on  his 
glasses;  then  fixing  his  companion  he  brought  out: 
"Have  you  no  idea  at  all  —  ?" 

"Of  what  you  have  in  your  head  ?  Dear  Mr.  Long 
don,  how  should  I  have  ?" 

"Well,  I  'm  wondering  if  I  should  n't  perhaps  have 
a  little  in  your  place.  There's  nothing  that  in  the 

261 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

circumstances  occurs  to  you  as  likely  I  should  want 
to  say  ? " 

Vanderbank  gave  a  laugh  that  might  have  struck 
an  auditor  as  a  trifle  uneasy.  "When  you  speak  of 
*  the  circumstances '  you  do  a  thing  that  —  unless 
you  mean  the  simple  thrilling  ones  of  this  particular 
moment  —  always  of  course  opens  the  door  of  the 
lurid  for  a  man  of  any  imagination.  To  such  a  man 
you've  only  to  give  a  nudge  for  his  conscience  to 
jump.  That's  at  any  rate  the  case  with  mine.  It's 
never  quite  on  its  feet  —  so  it's  now  already  on  its 
back."  He  stopped  a  little  —  his  smile  was  even 
strained.  "Is  what  you  want  to  put  before  me  some 
thing  awful  I  've  done  ? " 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  press  this  point."  Mr.  Longdon 
spoke  kindly,  but  if  his  friend's  anxiety  grew  his  own 
thereby  diminished.  "Can  you  think  of  nothing  at 
all?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  I've  done?" 

"No,  but  that  —  whether  you  've  done  it  or  not  — 
I  may  have  become  aware  of." 

There  could  have  been  no  better  proof  than  Van- 
derbank's  expression,  on  this,  of  his  having  mastered 
the  secret  of  humouring  without  appearing  to  patron 
ise.  "I  think  you  ought  to  give  me  a  little  more  of 
a  clue." 

Mr.  Longdon  took  off  his  glasses.  "Well  —  the 
clue's  Nanda  Brookenham." 

"Oh  I  see."  His  friend  had  responded  quickly, 
but  for  a  minute  said  nothing  more,  and  the  great 
marble  clock  that  gave  the  place  the  air  of  a  club 
ticked  louder  in  the  stillness.  Mr.  Longdon  waited 

262 


THE  DUCHESS 

with  a  benevolent  want  of  mercy,  yet  with  a  look  in 
his  face  that  spoke  of  what  depended  for  him  — 
though  indeed  very  far  within  —  on  the  upshot  of  his 
patience.  The  hush  between  them,  for  that  matter, 
became  a  conscious  public  measure  of  the  young 
man's  honesty.  He  evidently  at  last  felt  it  as  such, 
and  there  would  have  been  for  an  observer  of  his 
handsome  controlled  face  a  study  of  some  sharp 
things.  "  I  judge  that  you  ask  me  for  such  an  utter 
ance,"  he  finally  said,  "as  very  few  persons  at  any 
time  have  the  right  to  expect  of  a  man.  Think  of  the 
people  —  and  very  decent  ones  —  to  whom  on  so 
many  a  question  one  must  only  reply  that  it's  none 
of  their  business." 

"I  see  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Long- 
don. 

"Then  you  know  also  the  distinguished  exception 
I  make  of  you.  There  is  n't  another  man  with  whom 
I'd  talk  of  it." 

"And  even  to  me  you  don't !  But  I  'm  none  the  less 
obliged  to  you,"  Mr.  Longdon  added. 

"It  isn't  only  the  gravity,"  his  companion  went 
on;  "it's  the  ridicule  that  inevitably  attaches — !" 

The  manner  in  which  Mr.  Longdon  indicated  the 
empty  room  was  in  itself  an  interruption.  "Don't  I 
sufficiently  spare  you  ? " 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Vanderbank. 

"Besides,  it's  not  for  nothing." 

"Of  course  not!"  the  young  man  returned,  though 
with  a  look  of  noting  the  next  moment  a  certain  awk 
wardness  in  his  concurrence.  "But  don't  spare  me 
now." 

263 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  don't  mean  to."  Mr.  Longdon  had  his  back  to 
the  table  again,  on  which  he  rested  with  each  hand 
on  the  rim.  "I  don't  mean  to,"  he  repeated. 

His  victim  gave  a  laugh  that  betrayed  at  least  the 
drop  of  a  tension.  "Yet  I  don't  quite  see  what  you 
can  do  to  me." 

"It's  just  what  for  some  time  past  I  've  been  trying 
to  think." 

"And  at  last  you've  discovered  ?" 

"Well  —  it  has  finally  glimmered  out  a  little  in 
this  extraordinary  place." 

Vanderbank  frankly  wondered.  "In  consequence 
of  anything  particular  that  has  happened  ?" 

Mr.  Longdon  had  a  pause.  "For  an  old  idiot  who 
notices  as  much  as  I  something  particular's  always 
happening.  If  you're  a  man  of  imagination — " 

"Oh,"  Vanderbank  broke  in,  "I  know  how  much 
more  in  that  case  you  're  one !  It  only  makes  me  re 
gret,"  he  continued,  "that  I've  not  attended  more 
since  yesterday  to  what  you've  been  about." 

"I've  been  about  nothing  but  what  among  you 
people  I'm  always  about.  I've  been  seeing,  feeling, 
thinking.  That  makes  no  show,  of  course  I  'm  aware, 
for  any  one  but  myself,  and  it's  wholly  my  own  affair. 
Except  indeed,"  he  added,  "so  far  as  I've  taken  into 
my  head  to  make,  on  it  all,  this  special  appeal.  There 
are  things  that  have  come  home  to  me." 

"Oh  I  see,  I  see,"  Vanderbank  showed  the  friend 
liest  alertness.  "  I  'm  to  take  it  from  you  then,  with 
all  the  avidity  of  my  vanity,  that  I  strike  you  as  the 
person  best  able  to  understand  what  they  are." 

Mr.  Longdon  appeared  to  wonder  an  instant  if  his 
264 


THE  DUCHESS 

intelligence  now  had  not  almost  too  much  of  a  glitter : 
he  kept  the  same  position,  his  back  against  the  table, 
and  while  Vanderbank,  on  the  settee,  pressed  upright 
against  the  wall,  they  recognised  in  silence  that  they 
were  trying  each  other.  "You're  much  the  best 
of  them.  I've  my  ideas  about  you.  You've  great 
gifts." 

"Well  then,  we're  worthy  of  each  other.  When 
Greek  meets  Greek  — ! "  and  the  young  man  laughed 
while,  a  little  with  the  air  of  bracing  himself,  he  folded 
his  arms.  "Here  we  are." 

His  companion  looked  at  him  a  moment  longer, 
then,  turning  away,  went  slowly  round  the  table.  On 
the  further  side  of  it  he  stopped  again  and,  after  a 
minute,  with  a  nervous  movement,  set  a  ball  or  two 
in  motion.  "It's  beautiful  —  but  it's  terrible!"  he 
finally  murmured.  He  had  n't  his  eyes  on  Vander 
bank,  who  for  a  minute  said  nothing,  and  he  presently 
went  on:  "To  see  it  and  not  to  want  to  try  to  help  — 
well,  I  can't  do  that."  Vanderbank,  still  neither  speak 
ing  nor  moving,  remained  as  if  he  might  interrupt 
something  of  high  importance,  and  his  friend,  passing 
along  the  opposite  edge  of  the  table,  continued  to  pro 
duce  in  the  stillness,  without  the  cue,  the  small  click 
of  the  ivory.  "  How  long  —  if  you  don't  mind  my 
asking  —  have  you  known  it  ? " 

Even  for  this  at  first  Vanderbank  had  no  answer  — 
none  but  to  rise  from  his  place,  come  down  to  the  floor 
and,  standing  there,  look  at  Mr.  Longdon  across  the 
table.  He  was  serious  now,  but  without  being  solemn. 
"How  can  one  tell  ?  One  can  never  be  sure.  A  man 
may  fancy,  may  wonder;  but  about  a  girl,  a  person  so 

265 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

much  younger  than  himself  and  so  much  more  help 
less,  he  feels  a  — what  shall  I  call  it  ?" 

"A  delicacy?"  Mr.  Longdon  suggested. 

"It  may  be  that;  the  name  doesn't  matter;  at 
all  events  he 's  embarrassed.  He  wants  not  to  be  an 
ass  on  the  one  side  and  yet  not  some  other  kind  of 
brute  on  the  other." 

Mr.  Longdon  listened  with  consideration  —  with 
a  beautiful  little  air  indeed  of  being,  in  his  all  but 
finally  benighted  state,  earnestly  open  to  information 
on  such  points  from  a  magnificent  young  man.  "  He 
does  n't  want,  you  mean,  to  be  a  coxcomb  ?  —  and 
he  does  n't  want  to  be  cruel  ? " 

Vanderbank,  visibly  preoccupied,  produced  a  faint 
kind  smile.  "Oh  you  know  /" 

"I  ?    I  should  know  less  than  any  one." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  turned  away  from  the  table  on 
this,  and  the  eyes  of  his  companion,  who  after  an 
instant  had  caught  his  meaning,  watched  him  move 
along  the  room  and  approach  another  part  of  the 
divan.  The  consequence  of  the  passage  was  that 
Vanderbank's  only  rejoinder  was  presently  to  say: 
"I  can't  tell  you  how  long  I've  imagined  —  have 
asked  myself.  She 's  so  charming,  so  interesting,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  her  always.  I  Ve  thought 
of  one  thing  and  another  to  do  —  and  then,  on  pur 
pose,  have  n't  thought  at  all.  That  has  mostly  seemed 
to  me  best." 

"Then  I  gather,"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  "that  your 
interest  in  her  —  ? " 

"Hasn't  the  same  character  as  her  interest  in 
me?"  Vanderbank  had  taken  him  up  responsively, 

266 


THE  DUCHESS 

but  after  speaking  looked  about  for  a  match  and 
lighted  a  new  cigarette.  "I'm  sure  you  understand," 
he  broke  out,  "what  an  extreme  effort  it  is  to  me  to 
talk  of  such  things ! " 

"Yes,  yes.  But  it's  just  effort  only  ?  It  gives  you 
no  pleasure  ?  I  mean  the  fact  of  her  condition,"  Mr. 
Longdon  explained. 

Vanderbank  had  really  to  think  a  little.  "  However 
much  it  might  give  me  I  should  probably  not  be  a 
fellow  to  gush.  I  'm  a  self-conscious  stick  of  a  Briton." 

"But  even  a  stick  of  a  Briton  — !"  Mr.  Longdon 
faltered  and  hovered.  "I've  gushed  in  short  to  you." 

"  About  Lady  Julia  ? "  the  young  man  frankly  asked. 
"  Is  gushing  what  you  call  what  you  've  done  ? " 

"Say  then  we're  sticks  of  Britons.  You're  not  in 
any  degree  at  all  in  love  ? " 

There  fell  between  them,  before  Vanderbank 
replied,  another  pause,  of  which  he  took  advantage 
to  move  once  more  round  the  table.  Mr.  Longdon 
meanwhile  had  mounted  to  the  high  bench  and  sat 
there  as  if  the  judge  were  now  in  his  proper  place. 
At  last  his  companion  spoke.  "What  you  're  coming 
to  is  of  course  that  you  've  conceived  a  desire." 

"That's  it  —  strange  as  it  may  seem.  But  be 
lieve  me,  it  has  not  been  precipitate.  I  've  watched 
you  both." 

"  Oh  I  knew  you  were  watching  her,"  said  Vander 
bank. 

"To  such  a  tune  that  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I 
want  her  so  to  marry — !"  But  on  the  odd  little 
quaver  of  longing  with  which  he  brought  it  out  the 
elder  man  fairly  hung. 

267 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Well?"  said  Vanderbank. 

"Well,  so  that  on  the  day  she  does  she'll  come  into 
the  interest  of  a  considerable  sum  of  money  —  already 
very  decently  invested  —  that  I  've  determined  to 
settle  on  her." 

Vanderbank's  instant  admiration  flushed  across  the 
room.  "  How  awfully  jolly  of  you  —  how  beautiful ! " 

"Oh  there's  a  way  to  show  practically  your  appre 
ciation  of  it." 

But  Vanderbank,  for  enthusiasm,  scarcely  heard 
him.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  admirable  I  think  you." 
Then  eagerly,  "Does  Nanda  know  it  ? "  he  demanded. 

Mr.  Longdon,  after  a  wait,  spoke  with  comparative 
dryness.  "  My  idea  has  been  that  for  the  present  you 
alone  shall." 

Vanderbank  took  it  in.    "No  other  man  ?" 

His  companion  looked  still  graver.  "  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  I  depend  on  you  to  keep  the  fact  to  yourself." 

"Absolutely  then  and  utterly.  But  that  won't  pre 
vent  what  I  think  of  it.  Nothing  for  a  long  time  has 
given  me  such  joy." 

Shining  and  sincere,  he  had  held  for  a  minute  Mr. 
Longdon's  eyes.  "Then  you  do  care  for  her?" 

"Immensely.  Never,  I  think,  so  much  as  now. 
That  sounds  of  a  grossness,  does  n't  it  ? "  the  young 
man  laughed.  "  But  your  announcement  really  lights 
up  the  mind." 

His  friend  for  a  moment  almost  glowed  with  his 
pleasure.  "The  sum  I  've  fixed  upon  would  be,  I  may 
mention,  substantial,  and  I  should  of  course  be  pre 
pared  with  a  clear  statement  —  a  very  definite  pledge 
—  of  my  intentions." 

268 


THE  DUCHESS 

"So  much  the  better!  Only"  — Vanderbank  sud 
denly  pulled  himself  up  —  "to  get  it  she  must 
marry  ?" 

"It's  not  in  my  interest  to  allow  you  to  suppose 
she  need  n't,  and  it's  only  because  of  my  intensely 
wanting  her  marriage  that  I  've  spoken  to  you." 

"And  on  the  ground  also  with  it"  —  Vanderbank 
so  far  concurred  —  "of  your  quite  taking  for  granted 
my  only  having  to  put  myself  forward  ? " 

If  his  friend  seemed  to  cast  about  it  proved  but  to 
be  for  the  fullest  expression.  Nothing  in  fact  could 
have  been  more  charged  than  the  quiet  way  in  which 
he  presently  said:  "My  dear  boy,  I  back  you." 

Vanderbank  clearly  was  touched  by  it.  "How 
extraordinarily  kind  you  are  to  me ! "  Mr.  Longdon's 
silence  appeared  to  reply  that  he  was  willing  to  let 
it  go  for  that,  and  the  young  man  next  went  on: 
"What  it  comes  to  then  —  as  you  put  it  —  is  that 
it's  a  way  for  me  to  add  something  handsome  to  my 
income." 

Mr.  Longdon  sat  for  a  little  with  his  eyes  attached 
to  the  green  field  of  the  billiard-table,  vivid  in  the 
spreading  suspended  lamplight.  "  I  think  I  ought  to 
tell  you  the  figure  I  have  in  mind." 

Another  person  present  might  have  felt  rather 
taxed  either  to  determine  the  degree  of  provocation 
represented  by  Vanderbank's  considerate  smile,  or 
to  say  if  there  was  an  appreciable  interval  before  he 
rang  out:  "I  think,  you  know,  you  oughtn't  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort.  Let  that  alone,  please.  The 
great  thing  is  the  interest  —  the  great  thing  is  the 
wish  you  express.  It  represents  a  view  of  me,  an  atti- 

269 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

tude  toward  me  — ! "     He  pulled  up,  dropping  his 
arms  and  turning  away  before  the  complete  image. 

"There's  nothing  in  those  things  that  need  over 
whelm  you.  It  would  be  odd  if  you  had  n't  your 
self,  about  your  value  and  your  future  a  feeling 
quite  as  lively  as  any  feeling  of  mine.  There  is  mine 
at  all  events.  I  can't  help  it.  Accept  it.  Then  of 
the  other  feeling  —  how  she  moves  me  —  I  won't 
speak." 

"  You  sufficiently  show  it ! " 

Mr.  Longdon  continued  to  watch  the  bright  circle 
on  the  table,  lost  in  which  a  moment  he  let  his  friend's 
answer  pass.  "I  won't  begin  to  you  on  Nanda." 

"Don't,"  said  Vanderbank.  But  in  the  pause  that 
ensued  each,  in  one  way  or  another,  might  have  been 
thinking  of  her  for  himself. 

It  was  broken  by  Mr.  Longdon's  presently  going 
on:  "Of  course  what  it  superficially  has  the  air  of  is 
my  offering  to  pay  you  for  taking  a  certain  step.  It's 
open  to  you  to  be  grand  and  proud  —  to  wrap  your 
self  in  your  majesty  and  ask  if  I  suppose  you  bribe- 
able.  I  have  n't  spoken  without  having  thought  of 
that." 

"Yes,"  said  Vanderbank  all  responsively,  "but 
it  is  n't  as  if  you  proposed  to  me,  is  it,  anything 
dreadful  ?  If  one  cares  for  a  girl  one 's  deucedly  glad 
she  has  money.  The  more  of  anything  good  she  has 
the  better.  I  may  assure  you,"  he  added  with  the 
brightness  of  his  friendly  intelligence  and  quite  as  if 
to  show  his  companion  the  way  to  be  least  concerned 
—  "I  may  assure  you  that  once  I  were  disposed  to 
act  on  your  suggestion  I  'd  make  short  work  of  any 

270 


THE  DUCHESS 

vulgar  interpretation  of  my  motive.  I  should  simply 
try  to  be  as  fine  as  yourself."  He  smoked,  he  moved 
about,  then  came  up  in  another  place.  "I  dare  say 
you  know  that  dear  old  Mitchy,  under  whose  blessed 
roof  we're  plotting  this  midnight  treason,  would 
marry  her  like  a  shot  and  without  a  penny." 

"  I  think  I  know  everything  —  I  think  I  've  thought 
of  everything.  Mr.  Mitchett,"  Mr.  Longdon  added, 
"is  impossible." 

Vanderbank  appeared  for  an  instant  to  wonder. 
"Wholly  then  through  her  attitude  ?" 

"Altogether." 

Again  he  hesitated.    "You've  asked  her?" 

"I've  asked  her." 

Once  more  Vanderbank  faltered.  "And  that's  how 
you  know  ? " 

"About  your  chance  ?    That's  how  I  know." 

The  young  man,  consuming  his  cigarette  with  con 
centration,  took  again  several  turns.  "And  your  idea 
is  to  give  one  time  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  had  for  a  minute  to  turn  his  idea 
over.  "  How  much  time  do  you  want  ? " 

Vanderbank  gave  a  headshake  that  was  both  re 
strictive  and  indulgent.  "  I  must  live  into  it  a  little. 
Your  offer  has  been  before  me  only  these  few  min 
utes,  and  it's  too  soon  for  me  to  commit  myself  to 
anything  whatever.  Except,"  he  added  gallantly,  "to 
my  gratitude." 

Mr.  Longdon,  at  this,  on  the  divan,  got  up,  as 
Vanderbank  had  previously  done,  under  the  spring 
of  emotion ;  only,  unlike  Vanderbank,  he  still  stood 
there,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  face,  a  little 

271 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

paler,  directed  straight.  There  was  disappointment 
in  him  even  before  he  spoke.  "You've  no  strong 
enough  impulse  —  ? " 

His  friend  met  him  with  admirable  candour. 
"Would  n't  it  seem  that  if  I  had  I  would  by  this  time 
have  taken  the  jump  ?" 

"Without  waiting,  you  mean,  for  anybody's 
money  ?"  Mr.  Longdon  cultivated  for  a  little  a  doubt. 
"Of  course  she  has  struck  one  as  —  till  now  —  tre 
mendously  young." 

Vanderbank  looked  about  once  more  for  matches 
and  occupied  a  time  with  relighting.  "  Till  now  — 
yes.  But  it's  not,"  he  pursued,  "only  because  she's 
so  young  that  —  for  each  of  us,  and  for  dear  old 
Mitchy  too  —  she's  so  interesting."  Mr.  Longdon 
had  restlessly  stepped  down,  and  Vanderbank's  eyes 
followed  him  till  he  stopped  again.  "I  make  out 
that  in  spite  pf  what  you  said  to  begin  with  you  're 
conscious  of  a  certain  pressure." 

"  In  the  matter  of  time  ?  Oh  yes,  I  do  want  it  done. 
That,"  Nanda's  patron  simply  explained,  "is  why 
I  myself  put  on  the  screw."  He  spoke  with  the  ring 
of  impatience.  "I  want  her  got  out." 

"'Out'?" 

"Out  of  her  mother's  house." 

Vanderbank  laughed  though  —  more  immediately 
—  he  had  coloured.  "Why,  her  mother's  house  is 
just  where  I  see  her!" 

"  Precisely ;  and  if  it  only  were  n't  we  might  get  on 
faster." 

Vanderbank,  for  all  his  kindness,  looked  still  more 
amused.  "  But  if  it  only  were  n't,  as  you  say,  I  seem 

272 


THE  DUCHESS 

to  understand  you  would  n't  have  your  particular 
vision  of  urgency." 

Mr.  Longdon,  through  adjusted  glasses,  took  him 
in  with  a  look  that  was  sad  as  well  as  sharp, 
then  jerked  the  glasses  off.  "Oh  you  do  under 
stand." 

"Ah,"  said  Vanderbank,  "I'm  a  mass  of  corrup 
tion!" 

"You  may  perfectly  be,  but  you  shall  not,"  Mr. 
Longdon  returned  with  decision,  "  get  off  on  any  such 
plea.  If  you're  good  enough  for  me  you're  good 
enough,  as  you  thoroughly  know,  on  whatever  head, 
for  any  one." 

"Thank  you."  But  Vanderbank,  for  all  his  happy 
appreciation,  thought  again.  "We  ought  at  any  rate 
to  remember,  ought  n't  we  ?  that  we  should  have 
Mrs.  Brook  against  us." 

His  companion  faltered  but  an  instant.  "Ah  that's 
another  thing  I  know.  But  it's  also  exactly  why. 
Why  I  want  Nanda  away." 

"I  see,  I  see." 

The  response  had  been  prompt,  yet  Mr.  Longdon 
seemed  suddenly  to  show  that  he  suspected  the 
superficial.  "Unless  it's  with  Mrs.  Brook  you're 
in  love."  Then  on  his  friend's  taking  the  idea  with 
a  mere  headshake  of  negation,  a  repudiation  that 
might  even  have  astonished  by  its  own  lack  of  sur 
prise,  "Or  unless  Mrs.  Brook's  in  love  with  you,"  he 
amended. 

Vanderbank  had  for  this  any  decent  gaiety.  "Ah 
that  of  course  may  perfectly  be ! " 

"  But  is  it  ?    That 's  the  question." 

273 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

He  continued  light.  "If  she  had  declared  her  pas 
sion  should  n't  I  rather  compromise  her  —  ?" 

"By  letting  me  know?"  Mr.  Longdon  reflected. 
"  I  'm  sure  I  can't  say  —  it 's  a  sort  of  thing  for  which 
I  have  n't  a  measure  or  a  precedent.  In  my  time 
women  did  n't  declare  their  passion.  I  'm  thinking  of 
what  the  meaning  is  of  Mrs.  Brookenham's  wanting 
you  —  as  I  've  heard  it  called  —  herself." 

Vanderbank,  still  with  his  smile,  smoked  a  minute. 
"That's  what  you've  heard  it  called  ?" 

"Yes,  but  you  must  excuse  me  from  telling  you  by 
whom." 

He  was  amused  at  his  friend's  discretion.  "It's 
unimaginable.  But  it  does  n't  matter.  We  all  call 
everything  —  anything.  The  meaning  of  it,  if  you 
and  I  put  it  so,  is  —  well,  a  modern  shade." 

"You  must  deal  then  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Longdon, 
"with  your  modern  shades."  He  spoke  now  as  if  the 
case  simply  awaited  such  dealing. 

But  at  this  his  young  friend  was  more  grave.  "  You 
could  do  nothing  ?  —  to  bring,  I  mean,  Mrs.  Brook 
round." 

Mr.  Longdon  fairly  started.  "Propose  on  your  be 
half  for  her  daughter  ?  With  your  authority  —  to 
morrow.  Authorise  me  and  I  instantly  act." 

Vanderbank's  colour  again  rose  —  his  flush  was 
complete.  "How  awfully  you  want  it!" 

Mr.  Longdon,  after  a  look  at  him,  turned  away. 
"How  awfully  you  don't!" 

The  young  man  continued  to  blush.  "No — you 
must  do  me  justice.  You've  not  made  a  mistake 
about  me  —  I  see  in  your  proposal,  I  think,  all  you 

274 


THE   DUCHESS 

can  desire  I  should.  Only  you  see  it  much  more 
simply  —  and  yet  I  can't  just  now  explain.  If  it 
•were  so  simple  I  should  say  to  you  in  a  moment  'Do 
speak  to  them  for  me '  —  I  should  leave  the  matter 
with  delight  in  your  hands.  But  I  require  time,  let 
me  remind  you,  and  you  have  n't  yet  told  me  how 
much  I  may  take." 

This  appeal  had  brought  them  again  face  to  face, 
and  Mr.  Longdon's  first  reply  to  it  was  a  look  at  his 
watch.  "It's  one  o'clock." 

"Oh  I  require"  — Vanderbank  had  recovered  his 
pleasant  humour  —  "more  than  to-night!" 

Mr.  Longdon  went  off  to  the  smaller  table  that 
still  offered  to  view  two  bedroom  candles.  "You  must 
take  of  course  the  time  you  need.  I  won't  trouble 
you  —  I  won't  hurry  you.  I  'm  going  to  bed." 

Vanderbank,  overtaking  him,  lighted  his  candle 
for  him;  after  which,  handing  it  and  smiling:  "Shall 
we  have  conduced  to  your  rest  ? " 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  at  the  other  candle.  "You're 
not  coming  to  bed  ?" 

"To  my  rest  we  shall  not  have  conduced.  I  stay 
up  a  while  longer." 

"Good."  Mr.  Longdon  was  pleased.  "You  won't 
forget  then,  as  we  promised,  to  put  out  the  lights  ? " 

"  If  you  trust  me  for  the  greater  you  can  trust  me 
for  the  less.  Good-night." 

Vanderbank  had  offered  his  hand.  "Good-night." 
But  Mr.  Longdon  kept  him  a  moment.  "You  don't 
care  for  my  figure  ? " 

"Not  yet  —  not  yet.  Please"  Vanderbank  seemed 
really  to  fear  it,  but  on  Mr.  Longdon's  releasing  him 

275 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

with  a  little  drop  of  disappointment  they  went 
together  to  the  door  of  the  room,  where  they  had 
another  pause. 

"She's  to  come  down  to  me  —  alone  —  in  Sep 
tember." 

Vanderbank  appeared  to  debate  and  conclude. 
"Then  may  /  come  ?" 

His  friend,  on  this  footing,  had  to  consider.  "  Shall 
you  know  by  that  time  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise  —  if  you  must  regard 
my  coming  as  a  pledge." 

Mr.  Longdon  thought  on;  then  raising  his  eyes: 
"I  don't  quite  see  why  you  won't  suffer  me  to  tell 
you—!" 

"The  detail  of  your  intention  ?  /  do  then.  You've 
said  quite  enough.  If  my  visit  must  commit  me," 
Vanderbank  pursued,  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  come." 

Mr.  Longdon,  who  had  passed  into  the  corridor, 
gave  a  dry  sad  little  laugh.  "Come  then  —  as  the 
ladies  say  —  'as  you  are'!" 

On  which,  rather  softly  closing  the  door,  the  young 
man  remained  alone  in  the  great  emptily  lighted 
billiard-room. 


BOOK  SIXTH 
MRS.  BROOK 


PRESENTING  himself  in  Buckingham  Crescent  three 
days  after  the  Sunday  spent  at  Mertle,  Vanderbank 
found  Lady  Fanny  Cashmore  in  the  act  of  taking  leave 
of  Mrs.  Brook  and  found  Mrs.  Brook  herself  in  the 
state  of  muffled  exaltation  that  was  the  mark  of  all 
her  intercourse  —  and  most  of  all  perhaps  of  her  fare 
wells — with  Lady  Fanny.  This  splendid  creature  gave 
out,  as  it  were,  so  little  that  Vanderbank  was  freshly 
struck  with  all  Mrs.  Brook  could  take  in,  though  no 
thing,  for  that  matter,  in  Buckingham  Crescent,  had 
been  more  fully  formulated  on  behalf  of  the  famous 
beauty  than  the  imperturbable  grandeur  of  her  almost 
total  absence  of  articulation.  Every  aspect  of  the 
phenomenon  had  been  freely  discussed  there  and  end 
less  ingenuity  lavished  on  the  question  of  how  exactly 
it  was  that  so  much  of  what  the  world  would  in  an 
other  case  have  called  complete  stupidity  could  be 
kept  by  a  mere  wonderful  face  from  boring  one  to 
death.  It  was  Mrs.  Brook  who,  in  this  relation  as  in 
many  others,  had  arrived  at  the  supreme  expres 
sion  of  the  law,  had  thrown  off,  happily  enough,  to 
whomever  it  might  have  concerned :  "  My  dear  thing, 
it  all  comes  back,  as  everything  always  does,  simply 
to  personal  pluck.  It's  only  a  question,  no  matter 
when  or  where,  of  having  enough.  Lady  Fanny  has 
the  courage  of  all  her  silence  —  so  much  therefore 
that  it  sees  her  completely  through  and  is  what  really 

279 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

makes  her  interesting.  Not  to  be  afraid  of  what  may 
happen  to  you  when  you  've  no  more  to  say  for  your 
self  than  a  steamer  without  a  light  —  that  truly  is  the 
highest  heroism,  and  Lady  Fanny's  greatness  is  that 
she 's  never  afraid.  She  takes  the  risk  every  time  she 
goes  out  —  takes,  as  you  may  say,  her  life  in  her 
hand.  She  just  turns  that  glorious  mask  upon  you 
and  practically  says:  'No,  I  won't  open  my  lips  — 
to  call  it  really  open  —  for  the  forty  minutes  I  shall 
stay;  but  I  calmly  defy  you,  all  the  same,  to  kill  me 
for  it.'  And  we  don't  kill  her  —  we  delight  in  her ; 
though  when  either  of  us  watches  her  in  a  circle  of 
others  it's  like  seeing  a  very  large  blind  person  in 
the  middle  of  Oxford  Street.  One  fairly  looks  about 
for  the  police."  Vanderbank,  before  his  fellow 
visitor  withdrew  it,  had  the  benefit  of  the  glorious 
mask  and  could  scarce  have  failed  to  be  amused  at 
the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Brook  alone  showed  the 
stress  of  thought.  Lady  Fanny,  in  the  other  scale,  sat 
aloft  and  Olympian,  so  that  though  visibly  much 
had  happened  between  the  two  ladies  it  had  all  hap 
pened  only  to  the  hostess.  The  sense  in  the  air  in 
short  was  just  of  Lady  Fanny  herself,  who  came  to 
an  end  like  a  banquet  or  a  procession.  Mrs.  Brook 
left  the  room  with  her  and,  on  coming  back,  was  full 
of  it.  "She'll  go,  she'll  go!" 

"  Go  where  ? "  Vanderbank  appeared  to  have  for 
the  question  less  attention  than  usual. 

"Well,  to  the  place  her  companion  will  propose. 
Probably  —  like  Anna  Karenine  —  to  one  of  the 
smaller  Italian  towns." 

"Anna  Karenine  ?    She  is  n't  a  bit  like  Anna." 
280 


MRS.  BROOK 

"Of  course  she  is  n't  so  clever,'*  said  Mrs.  Brook. 
"But  that  would  spoil  her.  So  it's  all  right." 

"I'm  glad  it's  all  right,"  Vanderbank  laughed. 
"But  I  dare  say  we  shall  still  have  her  with  us  a 
while." 

"We  shall  do  that,  I  trust,  whatever  happens. 
She  '11  come  up  again  —  she  '11  remain,  I  feel,  one  of 
those  enormous  things  that  fate  seems  somehow  to 
have  given  me  as  the  occupation  of  my  odd  moments. 
I  don't  see,"  Mrs.  Brook  added,  "what  still  keeps 
her  on  the  edge,  which  is  n't  an  inch  wide." 

Vandeibank  looked  this  time  as  if  he  only  tried  to 
wonder.  "Is  n't  it  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Brook  mused  more  deeply.  "Sometimes  I 
think  so.  But  I  don't  know." 

"Yes,  how  can  you  of  course  know,  since  she  can't 
tell  you?" 

"Oh  if  I  depended  on  her  telling  — !"  Mrs. 
Brook  shook  out  with  this  a  sofa-cushion  or  two  and 
sank  into  the  corner  she  had  arranged.  The  August 
afternoon  was  hot  and  the  London  air  heavy;  the 
room  moreover,  though  agreeably  bedimmed,  gave 
out  the  staleness  of  the  season's  end.  "If  you  had  n't 
come  to-day,"  she  went  on,  "you'd  have  missed  me 
till  I  don't  know  when,  for  we  've  let  the  Hovel  again 
—  wretchedly,  but  still  we  've  let  it  —  and  I  go  down 
on  Friday  to  see  that  it  is  n't  too  filthy.  Edward, 
who 's  furious  at  what  I  've  taken  for  it,  had  his  idea 
that  we  should  go  there  this  year  ourselves." 

"Arid  now"  —  Vanderbank  took  her  up  —  "that 
fond  fancy  has  become  simply  the  ghost  of  a  dead 
thought,  a  ghost  that,  in  company  with  a  thousand 

281 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

predecessors,  haunts  the  house  in  the  twilight  and 
pops  at  you  out  of  odd  corners." 

"Oh  Edward's  dead  thoughts  are  indeed  a  cheer 
ful  company  and  worthy  of  the  perpetual  mental 
mourning  we  seem  to  go  about  in.  They're  worse 
than  the  relations  we  're  always  losing  without  seem 
ing  to  have  any  fewer,  and  I  expect  every  day  to  hear 
that  the  Morning  Post  regrets  to  have  to  announce 
in  that  line  too  some  new  bereavement.  The  appari 
tions  following  the  deaths  of  so  many  thoughts  are 
particularly  awful  in  the  twilight,  so  that  at  this 
season,  while  the  day  drags  and  drags,  I  'm  glad 
to  have  any  one  with  me  who  may  keep  them  at  a 
distance." 

Vanderbank  had  not  sat  down;  slowly,  familiarly 
he  turned  about.  "And  where 's  Nanda  ?" 

"Oh  she  doesn't  help  —  she  attracts  rather  the 
worst  of  the  bogies.  Edward  and  Nanda  and  Harold 
and  I  seated  together  are  fairly  a  case  for  that  —  what 
do  you  call  it  ?  —  investigating  Society.  Deprived 
of  the  sweet  resource  of  the  Hovel,"  Mrs.  Brook 
continued,  "we  shall  each,  from  about  the  tenth 
on,  forage  somehow  or  other  for  ourselves.  Mitchy 
perhaps,"  she  added,  "will  insist  on  taking  us  to 
Baireuth." 

"That  will  be  the  form,  you  mean,  of  his  own 
forage  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  just  hesitated.  "Unless  you  should 
prefer  to  take  it  as  the  form  of  yours." 

Vanderbank  appeared  for  a  moment  obligingly 
enough  to  turn  this  over,  but  with  the  effect  of  noting 
an  objection.  "Oh  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  grind 

282 


MRS.   BROOK 

straight  through  the  month  and  that  by  the  time  I  *m 
free  every  Ring  at  Baireuth  will  certainly  have  been 
rung.  Is  it  your  idea  to  take  Nanda  ?"  he  asked. 

She  reached  out  for  another  cushion.  "If  it's  im 
possible  for  you  to  manage  what  I  suggest  why  should 
that  question  interest  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  woman  "  —  and  her  visitor  dropped  into 
a  chair  —  "do  you  suppose  my  interest  depends  on 
such  poverties  as  what  I  can  *  manage'  ?  You  know 
well  enough,"  he  went  on  in  another  tone,  "why  I  care 
for  Nanda  and  enquire  about  her." 

She  was  perfectly  ready.  "  I  know  it,  but  only  as 
a  bad  reason.  Don't  be  too  sure!" 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other.  "Don't 
be  so  sure,  you  mean,  that  the  elation  of  it  may  go 
to  my  head  ?  Are  you  really  warning  me  against 
vanity  ? " 

"Your  'reallys,'  my  dear  Van,  are  a  little  formid 
able,  but  it  strikes  me  that  before  I  tell  you  there's 
something  I  Ve  a  right  to  ask.  Are  you  *  really '  what 
they  call  thinking  of  my  daughter  ?" 

"Your  asking,"  Vanderbank  returned,  "exactly 
shows  the  state  of  your  knowledge  of  the  matter.  I 
don't  quite  see  moreover  why  you  speak  as  if  I  were 
paying  an  abrupt  and  unnatural  attention.  What  have 
I  done  the  last  three  months  but  talk  to  you  about 
her  ?  What  have  you  done  but  talk  to  me  about  her  ? 
From  the  moment  you  first  spoke  to  me  —  *  mon 
strously,'  I  remember  you  called  it  —  of  the  differ 
ence  made  in  your  social  life  by  her  finally  established, 
her  perpetual,  her  inexorable  participation  :  from  that 
moment  what  have  we  both  done  but  put  our  heads 

283 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

together  over  the  question  of  keeping  the  place  tidy, 
as  you  called  it  —  or  as  /  called  it,  was  it  ?  —  for 
the  young  female  mind  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  faced  serenely  enough  the  directness 
of  this  challenge.  "Well,  what  are  you  coming  to? 
I  spoke  of  the  change  in  my  life  of  course ;  I  happen 
to  be  so  constituted  that  my  life  has  something  to  do 
with  my  mind  and  my  mind  something  to  do  with  my 
talk.  Good  talk:  you  know  —  no  one,  dear  Van, 
should  know  better  —  what  part  for  me  that  plays. 
Therefore  when  one  has  deliberately  to  make  one's 
talk  bad— !" 

"Bad'?"  Vanderbank,  in  his  amusement,  fell 
back  in  his  chair.  "Dear  Mrs.  Brook,  you're  too 
delightful!" 

"You  know  what  I  mean  —  stupid,  flat,  fourth- 
rate.  When  one  has  to  haul  in  sail  to  that  degree  — 
and  for  a  perfectly  outside  reason  —  there's  nothing 
strange  in  one's  taking  a  friend  sometimes  into  the 
confidence  of  one's  irritation." 

"Ah,"  Vanderbank  protested,  "you  do  yourself 
injustice.  Irritation  has  n't  been  for  you  the  only 
consequence  of  the  affair." 

Mrs.  Brook  gloomily  thought.  "No, no  —  I  've  had 
my  calmness:  the  calmness  of  deep  despair.  I've 
seemed  to  see  everything  go." 

"Oh  how  can  you  say  that,"  her  visitor  demanded, 
"when  just  what  we've  most  been  agreed  upon  so 
often  is  the  practical  impossibility  of  making  any 
change  ?  Has  n't  it  seemed  as  if  we  really  can't  over 
come  conversational  habits  so  thoroughly  formed  ? " 

Again  Mrs.  Brook  reflected.  "As  if  our  way  of 
284 


MRS.  BROOK 

looking  at  things  were  too  serious  to  be  trifled  with  ? 
I  don't  know  —  I  think  it 's  only  you  who  have 
denied  our  sacrifices,  our  compromises  and  conces 
sions.  I  myself  have  constantly  felt  smothered  in 
them.  But  there  it  is,"  she  impatiently  went  on. 
"What  I  don't  admit  is  that  you've  given  me  ground 
to  take  for  a  proof  of  your  *  intentions '  —  to  use  the 
odious  term  —  your  association  with  me  on  behalf 
of  the  preposterous  fiction,  as  it  after  all  is,  of  Nanda's 
blankness  of  mind." 

Vanderbank's  head,  in  his  chair,  was  thrown  back; 
his  eyes  ranged  over  the  top  of  the  room.  "There 
never  has  been  any  mystery  about  my  thinking  her 
—  all  in  her  own  way  —  the  nicest  girl  in  London. 
She  is." 

His  companion  was  silent  a  little.  "She  is,  by  all 
means.  Well,"  she  then  added,  "so  far  as  I  may  have 
been  alive  to  the  fact  of  any  one's  thinking  her  so,  it's 
not  out  of  place  I  should  mention  to  you  the  difference 
made  in  my  appreciation  of  it  by  our  delightful  little 
stay  at  Mertle.  My  views  for  Nanda,"  said  Mrs. 
Brook,  "have  somehow  gone  up." 

Vanderbank  was  prompt  to  show  how  he  could 
understand  it.  "So  that  you  would  n't  consider  even 
Mitchy  now?" 

But  his  friend  took  no  notice  of  the  question.  "The 
way  Mr.  Longdon  distinguishes  her  is  quite  the  sort  of 
thing  that  gives  a  girl,  as  Harold  says,  a  'leg  up.'  It's 
awfully  curious  and  has  made  me  think :  he  is  n't 
anything  whatever,  as  London  estimates  go,  in  him 
self —  so  that  what  is  it,  pray,  that  makes  him,  when 
*  added  on '  to  her,  so  double  Nanda's  value  ?  I  some- 

285 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

how  or  other  see,  through  his  being  known  to  back 
her  and  through  the  pretty  story  of  his  loyalty  to 
mamma  and  all  the  rest  of  it  (oh  if  one  chose  to  work 
that !)  ever  so  much  more  of  a  chance  for  her." 

Vanderbank's  eyes  were  on  the  ceiling.  "It  is  curi 
ous,  is  n't  it  ?  —  though  I  think  he 's  rather  more  '  in 
himself/  even  for  the  London  estimate,  than  you 
quite  understand."  He  appeared  to  give  her  time  to 
take  this  up,  but  as  she  said  nothing  he  pursued: 
"  I  dare  say  that  if  even  I  now  were  to  enter  myself  it 
would  strike  you  as  too  late." 

Her  attention  to  this  was  but  indirect.  "It's  aw 
fully  vulgar  to  be  talking  about  it,  but  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  something  possibly  rather  big  will  come 
of  Mr.  Longdon." 

"Ah  we've  touched  on  that  before,"  said  Vander- 
bank,  "and  you  know  you  did  think  something  might 
come  even  for  me." 

She  continued  however,  as  if  she  scarce  heard  him, 
to  work  out  her  own  vision.  "It's  very  true  that  up 
to  now — " 

"Well,  up  to  now?"  he  asked  as  she  faltered. 

She  faltered  still  a  little.  "I  do  say  the  most  hide 
ous  things.  But  we  have  said  worse,  have  n't  we  ? 
Up  to  now,  I  mean,  he  has  n't  given  her  anything. 
Unless  indeed,"  she  mused,  "she  may  have  had 
something  without  telling  me." 

Vanderbank  went  much  straighter.  "What  sort 
of  thing  have  you  in  mind  ?  Are  you  thinking  of 
money  ?" 

"Yes.    Is  n't  it  awful?" 

"That  you  should  think  of  it?" 
286 


MRS.   BROOK 

"That  I  should  talk  this  way."  Her  friend  was 
apparently  not  prepared  with  an  assent,  and  she 
quickly  enough  pursued:  "If  he  had  given  her  any 
it  would  come  out  somehow  in  her  expenditure.  She 
has  tremendous  liberty  and  is  very  secretive,  but  still 
it  would  come  out." 

"  He  would  n't  give  her  any  without  letting  you 
know.  Nor  would  she,  without  doing  so,"  Vander- 
bank  added,  "take  it." 

"Ah,"  Mrs.  Brook  quietly  said,  "she  hates  me 
enough  for  anything." 

"That's  only  your  romantic  theory." 

Once  more  she  appeared  not  to  hear  him;  she 
gave  the  discussion  another  turn.  "  Has  he  given  you 
anything?" 

Her  visitor  smiled.  "Not  so  much  as  a  cigarette. 
I've  always  my  pockets  full  of  them,  and  he  never: 
so  he  only  takes  mine.  Oh  Mrs.  Brook,"  he  con 
tinued,  "with  me  too  —  though  I  've  also  tremendous 
liberty !  —  it  would  come  out." 

"I  think  you'd  let  me  know,"  she  returned. 

"Yes,  I'd  let  you  know." 

Silence,  upon  this,  fell  between  them  a  little; 
which  she  was  the  first  to  break.  "She  has  gone 
with  him  this  afternoon  —  by  solemn  appointment 
—  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum." 

There  was  something  in  Mrs.  Brook's  dolorous 
drop  that  yet  presented  the  news  as  a  portent  so  great 
that  he  was  moved  again  to  mirth.  "Ah  that's  where 
she  is  ?  Then  I  confess  she  has  scored.  He  has  never 
taken  me  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum." 

"You  were  asking  what  we're  going  to  do,"  she 

287 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

went  on.  "What  I  meant  was  —  about  Baireuth  — 
that  the  question  for  Nanda's  simplified.  He  has 
pressed  her  so  to  pay  him  a  visit." 

Vanderbank's  assent  was  marked.  "I  see:  so  that 
if  you  do  go  abroad  she  '11  be  provided  for  by  that 
engagement." 

"And  by  lots  of  other  invitations." 

These  were  such  things  as,  for  the  most  part,  the 
young  man  could  turn  over.  "Do  you  mean  you'd 
let  her  go  alone  —  ? " 

"To  wherever  she's  asked?"  said  Mrs.  Brook. 
"Why  not?  Don't  talk  like  the  Duchess." 

Vanderbank  seemed  for  a  moment  to  try  not  to. 
"Could  n't  Mr.  Longdon  take  her  ?  Why  not  ?" 

His  friend  looked  really  struck  with  it.  "That 
would  be  working  him.  But  to  a  beautiful  end  ! "  she 
meditated.  "The  only  thing  would  be  to  get  him 
also  asked." 

"Ah  but  there  you  are,  don't  you  see?  Fancy 
*  getting'  Mr.  Longdon  anything  or  anywhere  what 
ever!  Don't  you  feel,"  Vanderbank  threw  out,  "how 
the  impossibility  of  exerting  that  sort  of  patronage 
for  him  immediately  places  him?" 

Mrs.  Brook  gave  her  companion  one  of  those  fitful 
glances  of  almost  grateful  appreciation  with  which 
their  intercourse  was  even  at  its  darkest  hours  fre 
quently  illumined.  "As  if  he  were  the  Primate  or 
the  French  Ambassador  ?  Yes,  you  're  right  —  one 
could  n't  do  it;  though  it's  very  odd  and  one  does  n't 
quite  see  why.  It  does  place  him.  But  he  becomes 
thereby  exactly  the  very  sort  of  person  with  whom  it 
would  be  most  of  an  advantage  for  her  to  go  about. 

288 


MRS.  BROOK 

What  a  pity,"  Mrs.  Brook  sighed,  "he  does  n't  know 
more  people ! " 

"Ah  well,  we  arey  in  our  way,  bringing  that  to  pass. 
Only  we  must  n't  rush  it.  Leave  it  to  Nanda  herself," 
Vanderbank  presently  added;  on  which  his  com 
panion  so  manifestly  left  it  that  she  touched  after 
a  moment's  silence  on  quite  a  different  matter. 

"  I  dare  say  he  'd  tell  you  —  would  n't  he  ?  —  if  he 
were  to  give  her  any  considerable  sum." 

She  had  only  obeyed  his  injunction,  but  he  stared  at 
the  length  of  her  jump.  "He  might  attempt  to  do  so, 
but  I  should  n't  at  all  like  it."  He  was  moved  im 
mediately  to  dismiss  this  branch  of  the  subject  and, 
apparently  to  help  himself,  take  up  another.  "Do  you 
mean  she  understands  he  has  asked  her  down  for 
a  regular  long  stay  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook  barely  hesitated.  "She  understands, 
I  think,  that  what  I  expect  of  her  is  to  make  it  as  long 
as  possible." 

Vanderbank  laughed  out  —  as  it  was  even  after 
ten  years  still  possible  to  laugh  —  at  the  childlike 
innocence  with  which  her  voice  could  invest  the  hard 
est  teachings  of  life;  then  with  something  a  trifle 
nervous  in  the  whole  sound  and  manner  he  sprang 
up  from  his  chair.  "What  a  blessing  he  is  to  us  all!" 

"Yes,  but  think  what  we  must  be  to  him" 

"An  immense  interest,  no  doubt."  He  took  a  few 
aimless  steps  and,  stooping  over  a  basket  of  flowers, 
inhaled  it  with  violence,  almost  buried  his  face.  "I 
dare  say  we  are  interesting." 

He  had  spoken  rather  vaguely,  but  Mrs.  Brook 
knew  exactly  why.  "We  render  him  no  end  of  a 

280 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

service.  We  keep  him  in  touch  with  old  memo 
ries." 

Vanderbank  had  reached  one  of  the  windows, 
shaded  from  without  by  a  great  striped  sun-blind 
beneath  which  and  between  the  flower-pots  of  the 
balcony  he  could  see  a  stretch  of  hot  relaxed  street. 
He  looked  a  minute  at  these  things.  "I  do  so  like 
your  phrases ! " 

She  had  a  pause  that  challenged  his  tone.  "Do  you 
call  mamma  a  'phrase'?" 

He  went  off  again,  quite  with  extravagance,  but 
quickly,  leaving  the  window,  pulled  himself  up.  "I 
dare  say  we  must  put  things  for  him  —  he  does  it, 
cares  or  is  able  to  do  it,  so  little  himself." 

"  Precisely.  He  just  quietly  acts.  That 's  his  nature, 
dear  thing.  We  must  let  him  act." 

Vanderbank  seemed  to  stifle  again  too  vivid  a  sense 
of  her  particular  emphasis.  "Yes,  yes  —  we  must  let 
him." 

"Though  it  won't  prevent  Nanda,  I  imagine,"  his 
hostess  pursued,  "from  finding  the  fun  of  a  whole 
month  at  Beccles  —  or  whatever  she  puts  in  —  not 
exactly  fast  and  furious." 

Vanderbank  had  the  look  of  measuring  what  the 
girl  might  "put  in."  "The  place  will  be  quiet,  of 
course,  but  when  a  person 's  so  fond  of  a  person  — ! " 

"As  she  is  of  him,  you  mean  ?" 

He  hesitated.    "Yes.    Then  it's  all  right." 

"She  is  fond  of  him,  thank  God!"  said  Mrs. 
Brook. 

He  was  before  her  now  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  suddenly  determined  on  a  great  blind  leap.  "Do 

290 


MRS.   BROOK 

you  know  what  he  has  done  ?    He  wants  me  so  to 
marry  her  that  he  has  proposed  a  definite  basis." 

Mrs.  Brook  got  straight  up.  "'Proposed'?  To 
her?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  he  has  said  a  word  to  Nanda  — 
in  fact  I  'm  sure  that,  very  properly,  he  does  n't  mean 
to.  But  he  spoke  to  me  on  Sunday  night  at  Mertle 
—  I  had  a  big  talk  with  him  there  alone,  very  late,  in 
the  smoking-room."  Mrs.  Brook's  stare  was  serious, 
and  Vanderbank  now  went  on  as  if  the  sound  of  his 
voice  helped  him  to  meet  it.  "We  had  things  out  very 
much  and  his  kindness  was  extraordinary  —  he 's  the 
most  beautiful  old  boy  that  ever  lived.  I  don't  know, 
now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  if  I  'm  within  my  rights 
in  telling  you  —  and  of  course  I  shall  immediately  let 
him  know  that  I  have  told  you;  but  I  feel  I  can't 
arrive  at  any  respectable  sort  of  attitude  in  the  matter 
without  taking  you  into  my  confidence.  Which  is 
really  what  I  came  here  to-day  to  do,  though  till  this 
moment  I  've  funked  it." 

It  was  either,  as  her  friends  chose  to  think  it,  an 
advantage  or  a  drawback  of  intercourse  with  Mrs. 
Brook  that,  her  face  being  at  any  moment  charged 
with  the  woe  of  the  world,  it  was  unavoidable  to 
remain  rather  in  the  dark  as  to  the  effect  there  of 
particular  strokes.  Something  in  Vanderbank's  pre 
sent  study  of  the  signs  accordingly  showed  he  had 
had  to  learn  to  feel  his  way  and  had  more  or  less 
mastered  the  trick.  That  she  had  turned  a  little  pale 
was  really  the  one  fresh  mark.  "'Funked'  it  ?  Why 
in  the  world  —  ? "  His  own  colour  deepened  at  her 
accent,  which  was  a  sufficient  light  on  his  having  been 

291 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

stupid.  "Do  you  mean  you've  declined  the  arrange 
ment  ? " 

He  only,  with  a  smile  somewhat  strained,  con 
tinued  for  a  moment  to  look  at  her;  clearly,  however, 
at  last  feeling,  and  not  much  caring,  that  he  got  in 
still  deeper.  "You're  magnificent.  You're  magni 
ficent." 

Her  lovely  gaze  widened  out.  "Comment  done? 
Where  —  why?  You  have  declined  her?"  she  went 
on.  After  which,  as  he  replied  only  with  a  slow  head- 
shake  that  seemed  to  say  it  was  not  for  the  moment 
all  so  simple  as  that,  she  had  one  of  the  inspirations 
to  which  she  was  constitutionally  subject.  "Do  you 
imagine  I  want  you  myself?" 

"Dear  Mrs.  Brook,  you're  so  admirable,"  he  re 
turned  with  gaiety,  "  that  if  by  any  chance  you  did, 
upon  my  honour,  I  don't  see  how  I  should  be  able 
not  to  say  'All  right.'"  But  he  spoke  too  more  re 
sponsibly.  "I  was  shy  of  really  bringing  out  to  you 
what  has  happened  to  me,  for  a  reason  that  I  've  of 
course  to  look  in  the  face.  Whatever  you  want  your 
self,  for  Nanda  you  want  Mitchy." 

"I  see,  I  see."  She  did  full  justice  to  his  explana 
tion.  "And  what  did  you  say  about  a  'basis'  ?  The 
blessed  man  offers  to  settle  —  ? " 

"You're  a  real  prodigy,"  her  visitor  answered, 
"and  your  imagination  takes  its  fences  in  a  way 
that,  when  I'm  out  with  you,  quite  puts  mine  to 
shame.  When  he  mentioned  it  to  me  I  was  quite 
surprised." 

"And  I,"  Mrs.  Brook  asked,  "am  not  surprised  a 
bit  ?  Is  n't  it  only,"  she  modestly  suggested,  "because 

292 


MRS.  BROOK 

I  've  taken  him  in  more  than  you  ?  Did  n't  you  know 
he  would?"  she  quavered. 

Vanderbank  thought  or  at  least  pretended  to. 
"  Make  me  the  condition  ?  How  could  I  be  sure  of 
it?" 

But  the  point  of  his  question  was  lost  for  her  in 
the  growing  light.  "Oh  then  the  condition's  'you' 
only  —  ?" 

"That,  at  any  rate,  is  all  I  have  to  do  with.  He's 
ready  to  settle  if  I  'm  ready  to  do  the  rest." 

"To  propose  to  her  straight,  you  mean?"  She 
waited,  but  as  he  said  nothing  she  went  on:  "And 
you  're  not  ready.  Is  that  it  ? " 

"I'm  taking  my  time." 

"Of  course  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "that 
she'd  jump  at  you." 

He  turned  away  from  her  now,  but  after  some  steps 
came  back.  "Then  you  do  admit  it." 

She  hesitated.    "To  you." 

He  had  a  strange  faint  smile.  "Well,  as  I  don't 
speak  of  it  — ! " 

"No  —  only  to  me.  What  is  it  he  settles  ?"  Mrs. 
Brook  demanded. 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  did  n't  ask?" 

"On  the  contrary  I  stopped  him  off." 

"Oh  then,"  Mrs.  Brook  exclaimed,  "that's  what 

call  declining." 

The  words  appeared  for  an  instant  to  strike  her 
companion.  "Is  it?  Is  it?"  he  almost  musingly  re 
peated.  But  he  shook  himself  the  next  moment  free 
of  his  wonder,  was  more  what  would  have  been  called 

293 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

in  Buckingham  Crescent  on  the  spot.  "Is  n't  there 
rather  something  in  my  having  thus  thought  it  my 
duty  to  warn  you  that  I'm  definitely  his  candi 
date?" 

Mrs.  Brook  turned  impatiently  away.  "You've 
certainly  —  with  your  talk  about  'warning'  —  the 
happiest  expressions!"  She  put  her  face  into  the 
flowers  as  he  had  done  just  before;  then  as  she  raised 
it:  "What  kind  of  a  monster  are  you  trying  to  make 
me  out?" 

"My  dear  lady" — Vanderbank  was  prompt  — 
"I  really  don't  think  I  say  anything  but  what's  fair. 
Is  n't  it  just  my  loyalty  to  you  in  fact  that  has  in  this 
case  positively  strained  my  discretion  ? " 

She  shook  her  head  in  mere  mild  despair.  "'Loy 
alty'  again  is  exquisite.  The  tact  of  men  has  a  charm 
quite  its  own.  And  you  're  rather  good,"  she  contin 
ued,  "as  men  go." 

His  laugh  was  now  a  little  awkward,  as  if  she  had 
already  succeeded  in  making  him  uncomfortable. 
"  I  always  become  aware  with  you  sooner  or  later  that 
they  don't  go  at  all  —  in  your  sense:  but  how  am  I, 
after  all,  so  far  out  if  you  have  put  your  money  on 
another  man  ?" 

"You  keep  coming  back  to  that?"  she  wearily 
sighed. 

He  thought  a  little.  "No,  then.  You  Ve  only  to  tell 
me  not  to,  and  I  '11  never  speak  of  it  again." 

"You'll  be  in  an  odd  position  for  speaking  of  it  if 
you  do  really  go  in.  You  deny  that  you've  declined," 
said  Mrs.  Brook;  "which  means  then  that  you've 
allowed  our  friend  to  hope." 

294 


MRS.  BROOK 

Vanderbank  met  it  bravely.  "Yes,  I  think  he 
hopes/* 

"And  communicates  his  hope  to  my  child  ?" 

This  arrested  the  young  man,  but  only  for  a  mo 
ment.  "  I  've  the  most  perfect  faith  in  his  wisdom  with 
her.  I  trust  his  particular  delicacy.  He  cares  more 
for  her,"  he  presently  added,  "even  than  we  do." 

Mrs.  Brook  gazed  away  at  the  infinite  of  space. 
"'We,'  my  dear  Van,"  she  at  last  returned,  "is  one 
of  your  own  real,  wonderful  touches.  But  there's 
something  in  what  you  say:  I  have,  as  between  our 
selves  —  between  me  and  him  —  been  backing 
Mitchy.  That  is  I  've  been  saying  to  him  'Wait,  wait: 
don't  at  any  rate  do  anything  else.'  Only  it's  just 
from  the  depth  of  my  thought  for  my  daughter's 
happiness  that  I  've  clung  to  this  resource.  He  would 
so  absolutely,  so  unreservedly  do  anything  for  her." 
She  had  reached  now,  with  her  extraordinary  self- 
control,  the  pitch  of  quiet  bland  demonstration.  "I 
want  the  poor  thing,  que  diable,  to  have  another  string 
to  her  bow  and  another  loaf,  for  her  desolate  old  age, 
on  the  shelf.  When  everything  else  is  gone  Mitchy 
will  still  be  there.  Then  it  will  be  at  least  her  own 
fault  — !"  Mrs.  Brook  continued.  "What  can  relieve 
me  of  the  primary  duty  of  taking  precautions,"  she 
wound  up,  "when  I  know  as  well  as  that  I  stand  here 
and  look  at  you  — " 

"Yes,  what?"  he  asked  as  she  just  paused. 

"Why  that  so  far  as  they  count  on  you  they  count, 
my  dear  Van,  on  a  blank."  Holding  him  a  minute  as 
with  the  soft  low  voice  of  his  fate,  she  sadly  but 
firmly  shook  her  head.  "You  won't  do  it." 

295 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

"Oh!"  he  almost  too  loudly  protested. 

"You  won't  do  it,"  she  went  on. 

"I  say  /"  —  he  made  a  joke  of  it. 

"You  won't  do  it,"  she  repeated. 

It  was  as  if  he  could  n't  at  last  but  show  himself 
really  struck;  yet  what  he  exclaimed  on  was  what 
might  in  truth  most  have  impressed  him.  "You  are 
magnificent,  really!" 

"  Mr.  Mitchett ! "  the  butler,  appearing  at  the  door, 
almost  familiarly  dropped ;  after  which  Vanderbank 
turned  straight  to  the  person  announced. 

Mr.  Mitchett  was  there,  and,  anticipating  Mrs. 
Brook  in  receiving  him,  her  companion  passed  it 
straighten.  "She's  magnificent!" 

Mitchy  was  already  all  interest.  "Rather!  But 
what 's  her  last  ? " 

It  had  been,  though  so  great,  so  subtle,  as  they  said 
in  Buckingham  Crescent,  that  Vanderbank  scarce 
knew  how  to  put  it.  "Well,  she's  so  thoroughly 
superior." 

"  Oh  to  whom  do  you  say  it  ? "  Mitchy  cried  as  he 
greeted  her. 


II 


THE  subject  of  this  eulogy  had  meanwhile  returned 
to  her  sofa,  where  she  received  the  homage  of  her 
new  visitor.  "It's  not  I  who  am  magnificent  a  bit 

—  it's  dear  Mr.  Longdon.    I've  just  had  from  Van 
the  most  wonderful  piece  of  news  about  him  —  his 
announcement  of  his  wish  to  make  it  worth  some 
body's  while  to  marry  my  child." 

" '  Make  it '  ? "  —  Mitchy  stared.    "  But  is  n't  it  ? " 
"My  dear  friend,  you  must  ask  Van.    Of  course 
you've  always  thought  so.   But  I  must  tell  you  all  the 
same,"  Mrs.  Brook  went  on,  "that  I'm  delighted." 

Mitchy  had  seated  himself,  but  Vanderbank  re 
mained  erect  and  became  perhaps  even  slightly  stiff. 
He  was  not  angry  —  no  member  of  the  inner  circle 
at  Buckingham  Crescent  was  ever  angry  —  but  he 
looked  grave  and  rather  troubled.  "Even  if  it  is 
decidedly  fine  "  —  he  addressed  his  hostess  straight 

—  "I  can't  make  out  quite  why  you're  doing  this. 
I  mean  immediately  making  it  known." 

"Ah  but  what  do  we  keep  from  Mitchy?"  Mrs. 
Brook  asked. 

"  What  can  you  keep  ?  It  comes  to  the  same  thing," 
Mitchy  said.  "Besides,  here  we  are  together,  share 
and  share  alike  —  one  beautiful  intelligence.  Mr. 
Longdon's  '  somebody '  is  of  course  Van.  Don't  try 
to  treat  me  as  an  outsider." 

Vanderbank  looked  a  little  foolishly,  though  it  was 
297 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

but  the  shade  of  a  shade,  from  one  of  them  to  the 
other.  "I  think  I've  been  rather  an  ass!" 

"What  then  by  the  terms  of  our  friendship  —  just 
as  Mitchy  says  —  can  he  and  I  have  a  better  right 
to  know  and  to  feel  with  you  about  ?  You'll  want, 
Mitchy,  won't  you  ?"  Mrs.  Brook  went  on,  "to  hear 
all  about  that?" 

"  Oh  I  only  mean,"  Vanderbank  explained, "  in  hav 
ing  just  now  blurted  my  tale  out  to  you.  However, 
I  of  course  do  know,"  he  pursued  to  Mitchy,  "  that 
whatever 's  really  between  us  will  remain  between 
us.  Let  me  then  tell  you  myself  exactly  what's  the 
matter."  The  length  of  his  pause  after  these  words 
showed  at  last  that  he  had  stopped  short;  on  which 
his  companions,  as  they  waited,  exchanged  a  sym 
pathetic  look.  They  waited  another  minute,  and  then 
he  dropped  into  a  chair  where,  leaning  forward,  his 
elbows  on  the  arms  and  his  gaze  attached  to  the 
carpet,  he  drew  out  the  silence.  Finally  he  looked  at 
Mrs.  Brook.  "  You  make  it  clear." 

The  appeal  called  up  for  some  reason  her  most 
infantine  manner.  "I  don't  think  I  can,  dear  Van 

—  really  clear.     You  know  however  yourself,"   she 
continued   to  Mitchy,  "enough  by  this  time  about 
Mr.  Longdon  and  mamma." 

"Oh  rather!"  Mitchy  laughed. 

"And  about  mamma  and  Nanda." 

"Oh  perfectly:  the  way  Nanda  reminds  him,  and 
the  'beautiful  loyalty'  that  has  made  him  take  such 
a  fancy  to  her.  But  I  've  already  embraced  the  facts 

—  you  need  n't  dot  any  i's."    With  another  glance  at 
his  fellow  visitor  Mitchy  jumped  up  and  stood  there 

298 


MRS.  BROOK 

florid.  "He  has  offered  you  money  to  marry  her." 
He  said  this  to  Vanderbank  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"Oh  no,"  Mrs.  Brook  interposed  with  promptitude: 
"he  has  simply  let  him  know  before  any  one  else  that 
the  money's  there  for  Nanda,  and  that  therefore  — I" 

"  First  come  first  served  ? "  Mitchy  had  already 
taken  her  up.  "I  see,  I  see.  Then  to  make  her  sure 
of  the  money,"  he  put  to  Vanderbank,  "you  must 
marry  her  ?" 

"  If  it  depends  upon  that  she  '11  never  get  it,"  Mrs. 
Brook  returned.  "  Dear  Van  will  think  conscientiously 
a  lot  about  it,  but  he  won't  do  it." 

"Won't  you,  Van,  really  ?"  Mitchy  asked  from  the 
hearth-rug. 

"Never,  never.  We  shall  be  very  kind  to  him,  we 
shall  help  him,  hope  and  pray  for  him,  but  we  shall  be 
at  the  end,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "just  where  we  are 
now.  Dear  Van  will  have  done  his  best,  and  we  shall 
have  done  ours.  Mr.  Longdon  will  have  done  his  — 
poor  Nanda  even  will  have  done  hers.  But  it  will  all 
have  been  in  vain.  However,"  Mrs.  Brook  continued 
to  expound,  "she'll  probably  have  the  money.  Mr. 
Longdon  will  surely  consider  that  she'll  want  it  if 
she  does  n't  marry  still  more  than  if  she  does.  So  we 
shall  be  so  much  at  least,"  she  wound  up  —  "I  mean 
Edward  and  I  and  the  child  will  be  —  to  the  good." 

Mitchy,  for  an  equal  certainty,  required  but  an 
instant's  thought.  "Oh  there  can  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  The  things  about  which  your  mind  may  now  be 
at  ease  — !"  he  cheerfully  exclaimed. 

"It  does  make  a  great  difference!"  Mrs.  Brook 
299 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

comfortably  sighed.  Then  in  a  different  tone:  "What 
dear  Van  will  find  at  the  end  that  he  can't  face  will 
be,  don't  you  see  ?  just  this  fact  of  appearing  to  have 
accepted  a  bribe.  He  won't  want,  on  the  one  hand  — 
out  of  kindness  for  Nanda  —  to  have  the  money  sup 
pressed;  and  yet  he  won't  want  to  have  the  pecuniary 
question  mixed  up  with  the  matter:  to  look  in  short 
as  if  he  had  had  to  be  paid.  He 's  like  you,  you  know 
—  he's  proud;  and  it  will  be  there  we  shall  break 
down." 

Mitchy  had  been  watching  his  friend,  who,  a  few 
minutes  before  perceptibly  embarrassed,  had  quite 
recovered  himself  and,  at  his  ease,  though  still  per 
haps  with  a  smile  a  trifle  strained,  leaned  back  and 
let  his  eyes  play  everywhere  but  over  the  faces  of  the 
others.  Vanderbank  evidently  wished  now  to  show 
a  good-humoured  detachment. 

"See  here,"  Mitchy  said  to  him:  "I  remember  your 
once  submitting  to  me  a  case  of  some  delicacy." 

"Oh  he'll  submit  it  to  you  —  he'll  submit  it  even 
to  me"  Mrs.  Brook  broke  in.  "He'll  be  charming, 
touching,  confiding  —  above  all  he  '11  be  awfully 
interesting  about  it.  But  he'll  make  up  his  mind  in 
his  own  way,  and  his  own  way  won't  be  to  accom 
modate  Mr.  Longdon." 

Mitchy  continued  to  study  their  companion  in  the 
light  of  these  remarks,  then  turned  upon  his  hostess 
his  sociable  glare.  "Splendid,  is  n't  it,  the  old  boy's 
infatuation  with  him  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook  just  delayed.  "From  the  point  of 
view  of  the  immense  interest  it  —  just  now,  for  in 
stance  —  makes  for  you  and  me  ?  Oh  yes,  it 's  one  of 

300 


MRS.  BROOK 

our  best  things  yet.  It  places  him  a  little  with  Lady 
Fanny  —  'He  will,  he  won't;  he  won't,  he  will!' 
Only,  to  be  perfect,  it  lacks,  as  I  say,  the  element 
of  real  suspense." 

Mitchy  frankly  wondered.  "It  does,  you  think? 
Not  for  me  —  not  wholly."  He  turned  again  quite 
pleadingly  to  their  friend.  "I  hope  it  doesn't  for 
yourself  totally  either  ? " 

Vanderbank,  cultivating  his  detachment,  made  at 
first  no  more  reply  than  if  he  had  not  heard,  and  the 
others  meanwhile  showed  faces  that  testified  perhaps 
less  than  their  respective  speeches  had  done  to  the 
absence  of  anxiety.  The  only  token  he  immediately 
gave  was  to  get  up  and  approach  Mitchy,  before 
whom  he  stood  a  minute  laughing  kindly  enough, 
though  not  altogether  gaily.  As  if  then  for  a  better 
proof  of  gaiety  he  presently  seized  him  by  the  shoulders 
and,  still  without  speaking,  pushed  him  backward 
into  the  chair  he  himself  had  just  quitted.  Mrs. 
Brook's  eyes,  from  the  sofa,  while  this  went  on,  at 
tached  themselves  to  her  visitors.  It  took  Vander 
bank,  as  he  moved  about  and  his  companions  waited, 
a  minute  longer  to  produce  what  he  had  in  mind. 
"What  is  splendid,  as  we  call  it,  is  this  extraordinary 
freedom  and  good  humour  of  our  intercourse  and  the 
fact  that  we  do  care  —  so  independently  of  our  per 
sonal  interests,  with  so  little  selfishness  or  other  vul 
garity  —  to  get  at  the  idea  of  things.  The  beautiful 
specimen  Mrs.  Brook  had  just  given  me  of  that,"  he 
continued  to  Mitchy,  "was  what  made  me  break  out 
to  you  about  her  when  you  came  in."  He  spoke  to  one 
friend,  but  he  looked  at  the  other.  "What's  really 

301 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

*  superior '  in  her  is  that,  though  I  suddenly  show  her 
an  interference  with  a  favourite  plan,  her  personal 
resentment's  nothing  —  all  she  wants  is  to  see  what 
may  really  happen,  to  take  in  the  truth  of  the  case  and 
make  the  best  of  that.  She  offers  me  the  truth,  as  she 
sees  it,  about  myself,  and  with  no  nasty  elation  if  it 
does  chance  to  be  the  truth  that  suits  her  best.  It  was 
a  charming,  charming  stroke." 

Mitchy's  appreciation  was  no  bar  to  his  amuse 
ment.  "  You  're  wonderfully  right  about  us.  But  still 
it  was  a  stroke." 

If  Mrs.  Brook  was  less  diverted  she  followed  per 
haps  more  closely.  "If  you  do  me  so  much  justice 
then,  why  did  you  put  to  me  such  a  cold  cruel  ques 
tion  ?  —  I  mean  when  you  so  oddly  challenged  me  on 
my  handing  on  your  news  to  Mitchy.  If  the  principal 
beauty  of  our  effort  to  live  together  is  —  and  quite 
according  to  your  own  eloquence  —  in  our  sincerity, 
I  simply  obeyed  the  impulse  to  do  the  sincere  thing. 
If  we  're  not  sincere  we  're  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  —  it  was  Mitchy  who  first  responded. 
"  But  we  are  sincere." 

"Yes,  we  are  sincere,"  Vanderbank  presently  said. 
"  It 's  a  great  chance  for  us  not  to  fall  below  ourselves : 
no  doubt  therefore  we  shall  continue  to  soar  and  sing. 
We  pay  for  it,  people  who  don't  like  us  say,  in  our 
self-consciousness  — " 

"  But  people  who  don't  like  us,"  Mitchy  broke  in, 
"  don't  matter.  Besides,  how  can  we  be  properly  con 
scious  of  each  other  —  ? " 

"That's  it!" — Vanderbank  completed  his  idea: 
"without  my  finding  myself  for  instance  in  you  and 

302 


MRS.   BROOK 

Mrs.  Brook  ?  We  see  ourselves  reflected  —  we  're 
conscious  of  the  charming  whole.  I  thank  you,"  he 
pursued  after  an  instant  to  Mrs.  Brook  —  "I  thank 
you  for  your  sincerity.'* 

It  was  a  business  sometimes  really  to  hold  her  eyes, 
but  they  had,  it  must  be  said  for  her,  their  steady 
moments.  She  exchanged  with  Vanderbank  a  some 
what  remarkable  look,  then,  with  an  art  of  her  own, 
broke  short  off  without  appearing  to  drop  him.  "The 
thing  is,  don't  you  think?"  —  she  appealed  to 
Mitchy  —  "for  us  not  to  be  so  awfully  clever  as  to 
make  it  believed  that  we  can  never  be  simple.  We 
must  n't  see  too  tremendous  things  —  even  in  each 
other."  She  quite  lost  patience  with  the  danger  she 
glanced  at.  "We  can  be  simple!" 

"We  can,  by  God!"  Mitchy  laughed. 

"Well,  we  are  now  —  and  it's  a  great  comfort  to 
have  it  settled,"  said  Vanderbank. 

"Then  you  see,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned,  "what  a 
mistake  you  'd  make  to  see  abysses  of  subtlety  in  my 
having  been  merely  natural." 

"We  can  be  natural,"  Mitchy  declared. 

"We  can,  by  God!"  Vanderbank  laughed. 

Mrs.  Brook  had  turned  to  Mitchy.  "I  just  wanted 
you  to  know.  So  I  spoke.  It 's  not  more  complicated 
than  that.  As  for  why  I  wanted  you  to  know  — ! " 

"What  better  reason  could  there  be,"  Mitchy 
interrupted,  "than  your  being  filled  to  the  finger-tips 
with  the  sense  of  how  I  would  want  it  myself,  and  of 
the  misery,  the  absolute  pathos,  of  my  being  left  out  ? 
Fancy,  my  dear  chap "  —  he  had  only  to  put  it  to 
Van  —  "  my  not  knowing ! " 

303 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Vanderbank  evidently  could  n't  fancy  it,  but  he  said 
quietly  enough:  "I  should  have  told  you  myself." 

"Well,  what's  the  difference?" 

"Oh  there  is  a  difference,"  Mrs.  Brook  loyally  said. 
Then  she  opened  an  inch  or  two,  for  Vanderbank,  the 
door  of  her  dim  radiance.  "Only  I  should  have 
thought  it  a  difference  for  the  better.  Of  course,"  she 
added,  "it  remains  absolutely  with  us  three  alone,  and 
don't  you  already  feel  from  it  the  fresh  charm  — with 
it  here  between  us  —  of  our  being  together  ? " 

It  was  as  if  each  of  the  men  had  waited  for  the 
other  to  assent  better  than  he  himself  could  and 
Mitchy  then,  as  Vanderbank  failed,  had  gracefully,  to 
cover  him,  changed  the  subject.  "  But  is  n't  Nanda, 
the  person  most  interested,  to  know?" 

Vanderbank  gave  on  this  a  strange  sound  of  hilarity. 
"Ah  that  would  finish  it  off!" 

It  produced  for  a  few  seconds  something  like  a  chill, 
a  chill  that  had  for  consequence  a  momentary  pause 
which  in  its  turn  added  weight  to  the  words  next 
uttered.  "It's  not  I  who  shall  tell  her,"  Mrs.  Brook 
said  gently  and  gravely.  "  There  !  —  you  may  be 
sure.  If  you  want  a  promise,  it's  a  promise.  So  that  if 
Mr.  Longdon's  silent,"  she  went  on,  "and  you  are, 
Mitchy,  and  I  am,  how  in  the  world  shall  she  have 
a  suspicion  ?" 

"You  mean  of  course  except  by  Van's  deciding  to 
mention  it  himself." 

Van  might  have  been,  from  the  way  they  looked  at 
him,  some  beautiful  unconscious  object;  but  Mrs. 
Brook  was  quite  ready  to  answer.  "Oh  poor  man, 
he'\\  never  breathe." 

304 


MRS.  BROOK 

"I  see.    So  there  we  are." 

To  this  discussion  the  subject  of  it  had  for  the  time 
nothing  to  contribute,  even  when  Mitchy,  rising  with 
the  words  he  had  last  uttered  from  the  chair  in  which 
he  had  been  placed,  took  sociably  as  well,  on  the 
hearth-rug,  a  position  before  their  hostess.  This  move 
ministered  apparently  to  Vanderbank's  mere  silence, 
for  it  was  still  without  speaking  that,  after  a  little,  he 
turned  away  from  his  friend  and  dropped  once  more 
into  the  same  seat.  "I've  shown  you  already,  you  of 
course  remember,"  Vanderbank  presently  said  to  him, 
"  that  I  'm  perfectly  aware  of  how  much  better  Mrs. 
Brook  would  like  you  for  the  position." 

"He  thinks  I  want  him  myself,"  Mrs.  Brook 
blandly  explained. 

She  was  indeed,  as  they  always  thought  her,  "won 
derful,"  but  she  was  perhaps  not  even  now  so  much 
so  as  Mitchy  found  himself  able  to  be.  "  But  how 
would  you  lose  old  Van  —  even  at  the  worst?"  he 
earnestly  asked  of  her. 

She  just  hesitated.  "What  do  you  mean  by  the 
worst  ? " 

"Then  even  at  the  best,"  Mitchy  smiled.  "In  the 
event  of  his  falsifying  your  prediction;  which,  by 
the  way,  has  the  danger,  has  n't  it  ?  —  I  mean  for 
your  intellectual  credit  —  of  making  him,  as  we  all 
used  to  be  called  by  our  nursemaids,  'contrairy." 

"Oh  I've  thought  of  that,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned. 
"  But  he  won't  do,  on  the  whole,  even  for  the  sweet 
ness  of  spiting  me,  what  he  won't  want  to  do.  / 
have  n't  said  I  should  lose  him,"  she  went  on;  "that's 
only  the  view  he  himself  takes  —  or,  to  do  him  per- 

3°5 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

feet  justice,  the  idea  he  candidly  imputes  to  me; 
though  without,  I  imagine  —  for  I  don't  go  so  far  as 
that  —  attributing  to  me  anything  so  unutterably 
bete  as  a  feeling  of  jealousy." 

"You  would  n't  dream  of  my  supposing  anything 
inept  of  you,"  Vanderbank  said  on  this,  "if  you 
understood  to  the  full  how  I  keep  on  admiring  you. 
Only  what  stupefies  me  a  little,"  he  continued,  "is  the 
extraordinary  critical  freedom  —  or  we  may  call  it 
if  we  like  the  high  intellectual  detachment  —  with 
which  we  discuss  a  question  touching  you,  dear  Mrs. 
Brook,  so  nearly  and  engaging  so  your  private  and 
most  sacred  sentiments.  What  are  we  playing  with, 
after  all,  but  the  idea  of  Nanda's  happiness?" 

"Oh  I'm  not  playing!"  Mrs.  Brook  declared  with 
a  little  rattle  of  emotion. 

"  She's  not  playing  "  —  Mr.  Mitchett  gravely  con 
firmed  it.  "Don't  you  feel  in  the  very  air  the  vibra 
tion  of  the  passion  that  she 's  simply  too  charming  to 
shake  at  the  window  as  the  housemaid  shakes  the 
tablecloth  or  the  jingo  the  flag?"  Then  he  took  up 
what  Vanderbank  had  previously  said.  "Of  course, 
my  dear  man,  I'm  'aware,'  as  you  just  now  put  it, 
of  everything,  and  I'm  not  indiscreet,  am  I,  Mrs. 
Brook  ?  in  admitting  for  you  as  well  as  for  myself 
that  there  was  an  impossibility  you  and  I  used  some 
times  to  turn  over  together.  Only  —  Lord  bless  us 
all !  —  it  is  n't  as  if  I  had  n't  long  ago  seen  that 
there's  nothing  at  all  for  me." 

"Ah  wait,  wait!"  Mrs.  Brook  put  in. 

"She  has  a  theory  "  —  Vanderbank,  from  his  chair, 
lighted  it  up  for  Mitchy,  who  hovered  before  them 

306 


MRS.  BROOK 

—  "  that  your  chance  will  come,  later  on,  after  I  've 
given  my  measure." 

"Oh  but  that's  exactly,"  Mitchy  was  quick  to  re 
spond,  "what  you  '11  never  do  !  You  won't  give  your 
measure  the  least  little  bit.  You'll  walk  in  magni 
ficent  mystery  'later  on'  not  a  bit  less  than  you  do  to 
day  ;  you  '11  continue  to  have  the  benefit  of  everything 
that  our  imagination,  perpetually  engaged,  often  baffled 
and  never  fatigued,  will  continue  to  bedeck  you  with. 
Nanda,  in  the  same  way,  to  the  end  of  all  her  time, 
will  simply  remain  exquisite,  or  genuine,  or  generous 

—  whatever  we  choose  to  call  it.    It  may  make  a  dif 
ference  to   us,  who   are  comparatively  vulgar,   but 
what  difference  will  it  make  to  her  whether  you  do 
or  you  don't  decide  for  her  ?  You  can't  belong  to  her 
more,  for  herself,  than  you  do  already  —  and  that 's 
precisely  so  much  that  there's  no  room  for  any  one 
else.   Where  therefore,  without  that  room,  do  I  come 
in?" 

"Nowhere,  I  see,"  Vanderbank  seemed  obligingly 
to  muse. 

Mrs.  Brook  had  followed  Mitchy  with  marked  ad 
miration,  but  she  gave  on  this  a  glance  at  Van  that 
was  like  the  toss  of  a  blossom  from  the  same  branch. 
"Oh  then  shall  I  just  go  on  witfryou  both?  That  will 
be  joy!"  She  had,  however,  the  next  thing,  a  sudden 
drop  which  shaded  the  picture.  "You're  so  divine, 
Mitchy,  that  how  can  you  not  in  the  long-run  break 
any  woman  down  ?" 

It  was  not  as  if  Mitchy  was  struck  —  it  was  only 
that  he  was  courteous.  "What  do  you  call  the  long- 
run  ?  Taking  about  till  I'm  eighty  ?." 

3°7 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Ah  your  genius  is  of  a  kind  to  which  middle  life 
will  be  particularly  favourable.  You '11  reap  then  some 
how,  one  feels,  everything  you  Ve  sown." 

Mitchy  still  accepted  the  prophecy  only  to  control 
it.  "  Do  you  call  eighty  middle  life  ?  Why,  my  moral 
beauty,  my  dear  woman  —  if  that's  what  you  mean 
by  my  genius  —  is  precisely  my  curse.  What  on  earth 
is  left  for  a  man  just  rotten  with  goodness  ?  It  renders 
necessary  the  kind  of  liking  that  renders  unnecessary 
anything  else." 

"Now  that  is  cheap  paradox!"  Vanderbank  pa 
tiently  sighed.  "You're  down  for  a  fine." 

It  was  with  less  of  the  patience  perhaps  that  Mrs. 
Brook  took  this  up.  "Yes,  on  that  we  are  stiff.  Five 
pounds,  please." 

Mitchy  drew  out  his  pocket-book  even  though  he 
explained.  "What  I  mean  is  that  I  don't  give  out  the 
great  thing."  With  which  he  produced  a  crisp  bank 
note. 

"Don't  you?"  asked  Vanderbank,  who,  having 
taken  it  from  him  to  hand  to  Mrs.  Brook,  held  it  a 
moment,  delicately,  to  accentuate  the  doubt. 

"The  great  thing's  the  sacred  terror.  It's  you  who 
give  that  out." 

"Oh!"  —  and  Vanderbank  laid  the  money  on  the 
small  stand  at  Mrs.  Brook's  elbow. 

"Ain't  I  right,  Mrs.  Brook?  —  doesn't  he,  tre 
mendously,  and  is  n't  that  more  than  anything  else 
what  does  it  ? " 

The  two  again,  as  if  they  understood  each  other, 
gazed  in  a  unity  of  interest  at  their  companion,  who 
sustained  it  with  an  air  clearly  intended  as  the  happy 

308 


MRS.  BROOK 

mean  between  embarrassment  and  triumph.  Then 
Mrs.  Brook  showed  she  liked  the  phrase.  "The  sa 
cred  terror !  Yes,  one  feels  it.  It  is  that." 

"The  finest  case  of  it,"  Mitchy  pursued,  "that 
I've  ever  met.  So  my  moral's  sufficiently  pointed." 

"Oh  I  don't  think  it  can  be  said  to  be  that,"  Van- 
derbank  returned,  "till  you've  put  the  whole  thing 
into  a  box  by  doing  for  Nanda  what  she  does  most 
want  you  to  do." 

Mitchy  caught  on  without  a  shade  of  wonder. 
"Oh  by  proposing  to  the  Duchess  for  little  Aggie  ?" 
He  took  but  an  instant  to  turn  it  over.  "Well,  I  would 
propose  —  to  please  Nanda.  Only  I  've  never  yet  quite 
made  out  the  reason  of  her  wish." 

"  The  reason  is  largely,"  his  friend  answered,  "  that, 
being  very  fond  of  Aggie  and  in  fact  extremely  ad 
miring  her,  she  wants  to  do  something  good  for  her 
and  to  keep  her  from  anything  bad.  Don't  you  know 
—  it's  too  charming  —  she  regularly  believes  in 
her?" 

Mitchy,  with  all  his  recognition,  vibrated  to  the 
touch.  "Is  n't  it  too  charming?" 

"Well  then,"  Vanderbank  went  on,  "she  secures 
for  her  friend  a  phoenix  like  you,  and  secures  for  you 
a  phoenix  like  her  friend.  It's  hard  to  say  for  which 
of  you  she  desires  most  to  do  the  handsome  thing. 
She  loves  you  both  in  short"  —  he  followed  it  up  — 
"though  perhaps  when  one  thinks  of  it  the  price  she 
puts  on  you,  Mitchy,  in  the  arrangement,  is  a  little 
the  higher.  Awfully  fine  at  any  rate  —  and  yet  aw 
fully  odd  too  —  her  feeling  for  Aggie's  type,  which 
is  divided  by  such  abysses  from  her  own." 

309 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Ah,"  laughed  Mitchy,  "but  think  then  of  her 
feeling  for  mine  ! " 

Vanderbank,  still  more  at  his  ease  now  and  with 
his  head  back,  had  his  eyes  aloft  and  far.  "Oh  there 
are  things  in  Nanda  — ! "  The  others  exchanged  a 
glance  at  this,  while  their  companion  added:  "Little 
Aggie's  really  the  sort  of  creature  she  would  have 
liked  to  be  able  to  be." 

"Well,"  Mitchy  said,  "I  should  have  adored  her 
even  if  she  had  been  able." 

Mrs.  Brook  had  for  some  minutes  played  no  aud 
ible  part,  but  the  acute  observer  we  are  constantly 
taking  for  granted  would  perhaps  have  detected  in 
her,  as  one  of  the  effects  of  the  special  complexion 
to-day  of  Vanderbank's  presence,  a  certain  smothered 
irritation.  "  She  could  n't  possibly  have  been  able," 
she  now  interposed,  "with  so  loose  — or  rather,  to  ex 
press  it  more  properly,  with  so  perverse  —  a  mother." 

"And  yet,  my  dear  lady,"  Mitchy  promptly  quali 
fied,  "how  if  in  little  Aggie's  case  the  Duchess  has  n't 
prevented  —  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook  was  full  of  wisdom.  "Well,  it's  a  dif 
ferent  thing.  I  'm  not,  as  a  mother  —  am  I,  Van  ?  — 
bad  enough.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
Aggie,  don't  you  see  ?  is  the  Duchess's  morality,  her 
virtue ;  which,  by  having  it  that  way  outside  of  you, 
as  one  may  say,  you  can  make  a  much  better  thing 
of.  The  child  has  been  for  Jane,  I  admit,  a  capital 
little  subject,  but  Jane  has  kept  her  on  hand  and 
finished  her  like  some  wonderful  piece  of  stitching. 
Oh  as  work  it's  of  a  soigne!  There  it  is  —  to  show. 
A  woman  like  me  has  to  be  herself,  poor  thing,  her 

310 


MRS.  BROOK 

virtue  and  her  morality.  What  will  you  have?  It's 
our  lumbering  English  plan." 

"So  that  her  daughter,"  Mitchy  sympathised,  "can 
only,  by  the  arrangement,  hope  to  become  at  the  best 
her  immorality  and  her  vice  ? " 

But  Mrs.  Brook,  without  an  answer  for  the  ques 
tion,  appeared  suddenly  to  have  plunged  into  a  sea 
of  thought.  "The  only  way  for  Nanda  to  have  been 
really  nice  — ! " 

"Would  have  been  for  you  to  be  like  Jane  ?" 

Mitchy  and  his  hostess  seemed  for  a  minute,  on 
this,  to  gaze  together  at  the  tragic  truth.  Then  she 
shook  her  head.  "We  see  our  mistakes  too  late."  She 
repeated  the  movement,  but  as  if  to  let  it  all  go,  and 
Vanderbank  meanwhile,  pulling  out  his  watch,  had 
got  up  with  a  laugh  that  showed  some  inattention  and 
made  to  Mitchy  a  remark  about  their  walking  away 
together.  Mitchy,  engaged  for  the  instant  with  Mrs. 
Brook,  had  assented  only  with  a  nod,  but  the  attitude 
of  the  two  men  had  become  that  of  departure.  Their 
friend  looked  at  them  as  if  she  would  like  to  keep  one 
of  them,  and  for  a  purpose  connected  somehow  with 
the  other,  but  was  oddly,  almost  ludicrously,  em 
barrassed  to  choose.  What  was  in  her  face  indeed 
during  this  short  passage  might  prove  to  have  been, 
should  we  penetrate,  the  flicker  of  a  sense  that  in  spite 
of  all  intimacy  and  amiability  they  could,  at  bottom 
and  as  things  commonly  turned  out,  only  be  united 
against  her.  Yet  she  made  at  the  end  a  sort  of  choice 
in  going  on  to  Mitchy :  "  He  has  n't  at  all  told  you 
the  real  reason  of  Nanda's  idea  that  you  should  go 
in  for  Aggie." 

3" 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh  I  draw  the  line  there,"  said  Vanderbank. 
"  Besides,  he  understands  that  too." 

Mitchy,  on  the  spot,  did  himself  and  every  one 
justice.  "Why  it  just  disposes  of  me,  does  n't  it  ?" 

It  made  Vanderbank,  restless  now  and  turning 
about  the  room,  stop  with  a  smile  at  Mrs.  Brook. 
"  We  understand  too  well ! " 

"Not  if  he  does  n't  understand,"  she  replied  after 
a  moment  while  she  turned  to  Mitchy,  "that  his 
real  'combination'  can  in  the  nature  of  the  case  only 
be—!" 

"Oh  yes "  —  Mitchy  took  her  straight  up  —  "with 
the  young  thing  who  is,  as  you  say,  positively  and 
helplessly  modern  and  the  pious  fraud  of  whose  classic 
identity  with  a  sheet  of  white  paper  has  been  —  ah 
tacitly  of  course,  but  none  the  less  practically!  — 
dropped.  You  've  so  often  reminded  me.  I  do  under 
stand.  If  I  were  to  go  in  for  Aggie  it  would  only  be 
to  oblige.  The  modern  girl,  the  product  of  our  hard 
London  facts  and  of  her  inevitable  consciousness  of 
them  just  as  they  are  —  she,  wonderful  being,  is,  I 
fully  recognise,  my  real  affair,  and  I  'm  not  ashamed 
to  say  that  when  I  like  the  individual  I  'm  not  afraid 
of  the  type.  She  knows  too  much  —  I  don't  say;  but 
she  does  n't  know  after  all  a  millionth  part  of  what 
/  do." 

"I'm  not  sure!"  Mrs.  Brook  earnestly  exclaimed. 

He  had  rung  out  and  he  kept  it  up  with  a  limpid 
ity  unusual.  "And  product  for  product,  when  you 
come  to  that,  I'm  a  queerer  one  myself  than  any 
other.  The  traditions  /  smash ! "  Mitchy  laughed. 

Mrs.  Brook  had  got  up  and  Vanderbank  had  gone 
312 


MRS.  BROOK 

again  to  the  window.  "That's  exactly  why,"  she  re 
turned.  "You're  a  pair  of  monsters  and  your  mon 
strosity  fits.  She  does  know  too  much,"  she  added. 

"Well,"  said  Mitchy  with  resolution,  "it's  all  my 
fault." 

"Not  all  —  unless,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned,  "that's 
only  a  sweet  way  of  saying  that  it's  mostly  mine." 

"  Oh  yours  too  —  immensely ;  in  fact  every  one's. 
Even  Edward's,  I  dare  say;  and  certainly,  unmis- 
takeably,  Harold's.  Ah  and  Van's  own  —  rather ! " 
Mitchy  continued;  "for  all  he  turns  his  back  and 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  it." 

It  was  on  the  back  Vanderbank  turned  that  Mrs. 
Brook's  eyes  now  rested.  "That's  precisely  why  he 
should  n't  be  afraid  of  her." 

He  faced  straight  about.  "Oh  I  don't  deny  my 
part." 

He  shone  at  them  brightly  enough,  and  Mrs. 
Brook,  thoughtful,  wistful,  candid,  took  in  for  a  mo 
ment  the  radiance.  "And  yet  to  think  that  after  all 
it  has  been  mere  talk  /" 

Something  in  her  tone  again  made  her  hearers 
laugh  out ;  so  it  was  still  with  the  air  of  good  humour 
that  Vanderbank  answered:  "Mere,  mere,  mere. 
But  perhaps  it's  exactly  the  'mere'  that  has  made 
us  range  so  wide." 

Mrs.  Brook's  intelligence  abounded.  "You  mean 
that  we  have  n't  had  the  excuse  of  passion  ?" 

Her  companions  once  more  gave  way  to  mirth, 
but  "There  you  are!"  Vanderbank  said  after  an  in 
stant  less  sociably.  With  it  too  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  afraid,"  she  answered  as  she  gave  him 

3*3 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

her  own;  on  which,  as  he  made  no  rejoinder,  she 
held  him  before  her.  "  Do  you  mean  you  really  don't 
know  if  she  gets  it  ? " 

"The  money,  if  he  doesn't  go  in?"  —  Mitchy 
broke  almost  with  an  air  of  responsibility  into  Van- 
derbank's  silence.  "Ah  but,  as  we  said,  surely — !" 

It  was  Mitchy's  eyes  that  Vanderbank  met.  "Yes, 
I  should  suppose  she  gets  it." 

"Perhaps  then,  as  a  compensation,  she'll  even  get 
more  — ! " 

"If  I  don't  go  in?  Oh!"  said  Vanderbank.  And 
he  changed  colour. 

He  was  by  this  time  off,  but  Mrs.  Brook  kept 
Mitchy  a  moment.  "Now  —  by  that  suggestion  —  he 
has  something  to  show.  He  won't  go  in." 


Ill 


HER  visitors  had  been  gone  half  an  hour,  but  she  was 
still  in  the  drawing-room  when  Nanda  came  back. 
The  girl  found  her,  on  the  sofa,  in  a  posture  that 
might  have  represented  restful  oblivion,  but  that,  after 
a  glance,  our  young  lady  appeared  to  interpret  as 
mere  intensity  of  thought.  It  was  a  condition  from 
which  at  all  events  Mrs.  Brook  was  quickly  roused 
by  her  daughter's  presence :  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
put  down  her  feet,  so  that  the  two  were  confronted 
as  closely  as  persons  may  be  when  it  is  only  one  of 
them  who  looks  at  the  other.  Nanda,  gazing  vaguely 
about  and  not  seeking  a  seat,  slowly  drew  off  her 
gloves  while  her  mother's  sad  eyes  considered  her 
from  top  to  toe.  "Tea's  gone,"  Mrs.  Brook  then 
said  as  if  there  were  something  in  the  loss  peculiarly 
irretrievable.  "But  I  suppose,"  she  added,  "he  gave 
you  all  you  want." 

"Oh  dear  yes,  thank  you  —  I've  had  lots." 
Nanda  hovered  there  slim  and  charming,  feathered 
and  ribboned,  dressed  in  thin  fresh  fabrics  and  faint 
colours,  with  something  in  the  effect  of  it  all  to  which 
the  sweeter  deeper  melancholy  in  her  mother's  eyes 
seemed  happily  to  testify.  "Just  turn  round,  dear." 
The  girl  immediately  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Brook  once 
more  took  everything  in.  "The  back's  best  —  only 
she  did  n't  do  what  she  said  she  would.  How  they 
do  lie!"  she  gently  quavered. 

315 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Yes,  but  we  lie  so  to  them"  Nanda  had  swung 
round  again,  producing  evidently  on  her  mother's 
part,  by  the  admirable  "hang"  of  her  light  skirts,  a 
still  deeper  peace.  "Do  you  mean  the  middle  fold  ? 
—  I  knew  she  would  n't.  I  don't  want  my  back  to  be 
best — I  don't  walk  backward." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Brook  resignedly  mused;  "you  dress 
for  yourself." 

"Oh  how  can  you  say  that,"  the  girl  asked,  "when 
I  never  stick  in  a  pin  but  what  I  think  of  you  ?" 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Brook  moralised,  "one  must  always, 
I  consider,  think,  as  a  sort  of  point  de  repere,  of  some 
one  good  person.  Only  it's  best  if  it's  a  person  one's 
afraid  of.  You  do  very  well,  but  I  'm  not  enough. 
What  one  really  requires  is  a  kind  of  salutary  terror. 
7  never  stick  in  a  pin  without  thinking  of  your  Cousin 
Jane.  What  is  it  that  some  one  quotes  somewhere 
about  some  one's  having  said  that  'Our  antagonist 
is  our  helper  —  he  prevents  our  being  superficial'? 
The  extent  to  which  with  my  poor  clothes  the  Duchess 
prevents  me  — !"  It  was  a  measure  Mrs.  Brook  could 
give  only  by  the  general  soft  wail  of  her  submission 
to  fate. 

"Yes,  the  Duchess  is  n't  a  woman,  is  she  ?  She's 
a  standard." 

The  speech  had  for  Nanda's  companion,  however, 
no  effect  of  pleasantry  or  irony,  and  it  was  a  mark  of 
the  special  intercourse  of  these  good  friends  that 
though  they  showed  each  other,  in  manner  and  tone, 
such  sustained  consideration  as  might  almost  have 
given  it  the  stamp  of  diplomacy,  there  was  yet  in  it 
also  something  of  that  economy  of  expression  which 

316 


MRS.  BROOK 

is  the  result  of  a  common  experience.  The  recurrence 
of  opportunity  to  observe  them  together  would  have 
taught  a  spectator  that — on  Mrs.  Brook's  side  doubt 
less  more  particularly  —  their  relation  was  governed 
by  two  or  three  remarkably  established  and,  as  might 
have  been  said,  refined  laws,  the  spirit  of  which  was 
to  guard  against  the  vulgarity  so  often  coming  to 
the  surface  between  parent  and  child.  That  they 
were  as  good  friends  as  if  Nanda  had  not  been  her 
daughter  was  a  truth  that  no  passage  between 
them  might  fail  in  one  way  or  another  to  illustrate. 
Nanda  had  gathered  up,  for  that  matter,  early  in  life, 
a  flower  of  maternal  wisdom :  "  People  talk  about  the 
conscience,  but  it  seems  to  me  one  must  just  bring 
it  up  to  a  certain  point  and  leave  it  there.  You  can 
let  your  conscience  alone  if  you  're  nice  to  the  second 
housemaid."  Mrs.  Brook  was  as  "nice"  to  Nanda 
as  she  was  to  Sarah  Curd — which  involved,  as  may 
easily  be  imagined,  the  happiest  conditions  for 
Sarah.  "Well,"  she  resumed,  reverting  to  the  Duchess 
on  a  final  appraisement  of  the  girl's  air,  "I  really 
think  I  do  well  by  you  and  that  Jane  would  n't  have 
anything  to  say  to-day.  You  look  awfully  like 
mamma,"  she  then  threw  off  as  if  for  the  first  time  of 
mentioning  it. 

"Oh  Cousin  Jane  doesn't  care  for  that,"  Nanda 
returned.  "What  I  don't  look  like  is  Aggie,  for  all 
I  try." 

"Ah  you  should  n't  try  — you  can  do  nothing  with 
it.  One  must  be  what  one  is." 

Mrs.  Brook  was  almost  sententious,  but  Nanda,  with 
civility,  let  it  pass.  "  No  one  in  London  touches  her. 

317 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

She's  quite  by  herself.  When  one  sees  her  one  feels 
her  to  be  the  real  thing." 

Mrs.  Brook,  without  harshness,  wondered.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  the  real  thing  ?" 

Even  Nanda,  however,  had  to  think  a  moment. 
"Well,  the  real  young  one.  That's  what  Lord  Peth- 
erton  calls  her,"  she  mildly  joked  —  " '  the  young 
W" 

Her  mother's  echo  was  not  for  the  joke,  but  for 
something  else.  "  I  know  what  you  mean.  What 's  the 
use  of  being  good  ? " 

"Oh  I  did  n't  mean  that,"  said  Nanda.  "Besides, 
is  n't  Aggie  of  a  goodness  —  ? " 

"  I  was  n't  talking  of  her.  I  was  asking  myself 
what's  the  use  of  my  being." 

"Well,  you  can't  help  it  any  more  than  the  Duchess 
can  help  — !" 

"  Ah  but  she  could  if  she  would ! "  Mrs.  Brook  broke 
in  with  a  sharper  ring  than  she  had  yet  given.  "We 
can't  help  being  good  perhaps,  if  that  burden's  laid 
on  us  —  but  there  are  lengths  in  other  directions 
we're  not  absolutely  obliged  to  go.  And  what  I  think 
of  when  I  stick  in  the  pins,"  she  went  on,  "is  that 
Jane  seems  to  me  really  never  to  have  had  to  pay." 
She  appeared  for  a  minute  to  brood  on  this  till  she 
could  no  longer  bear  it;  after  which  she  jerked  out: 
"Why  she  has  never  had  to  pay  for  anything!" 

Nanda  had  by  this  time  seated  herself,  taking  her 
place,  under  the  interest  of  their  talk,  on  her  mother's 
sofa,  where,  except  for  the  removal  of  her  long  soft 
gloves,  which  one  of  her  hands  again  and  again  drew 
caressingly  through  the  other,  she  remained  very 

318 


MRS.  BROOK 

much  as  if  she  were  some  friendly  yet  circumspect 
young  visitor  to  whom  Mrs.  Brook  had  on  some 
occasion  dropped  "Do  come."  But  there  was  some 
thing  perhaps  more  expressly  conciliatory  in  the  way 
she  had  kept  everything  on:  as  if,  in  particular  se 
renity  and  to  confirm  kindly  Mrs.  Brook's  sense  of 
what  had  been  done  for  her,  she  had  neither  taken 
off  her  great  feathered  hat  nor  laid  down  her  parasol 
of  pale  green  silk,  the  "match"  of  hat  and  ribbons 
and  which  had  an  expensive  precious  knob.  Our 
spectator  would  possibly  have  found  too  much  earn 
estness  in  her  face  to  be  sure  if  there  was  also  candour. 
"And  do  you  mean  that  you  have  had  to  pay  —  ?" 

"Oh  yes  — all  the  while."  With  this  Mrs.  Brook 
was  a  little  short,  and  also  as  she  added  as  if  to  banish 
a  slight  awkwardness:  "But  don't  let  it  discourage 
you." 

Nanda  seemed  an  instant  to  weigh  the  advice,  and 
the  whole  thing  would  have  been  striking  as  another 
touch  in  the  picture  of  the  odd  want,  on  the  part  of 
each,  of  any  sense  of  levity  in  the  other.  Whatever 
escape,  face  to  face,  mother  or  daughter  might  ever 
seek  would  never  be  the  humorous  one  —  a  circum 
stance,  notwithstanding,  that  would  not  in  every  case 
have  failed  to  make  their  interviews  droll  for  a  third 
person.  It  would  always  indeed  for  such  a  person 
have  produced  an  impression  of  tension  beneath  the 
surface.  "  I  could  have  done  much  better  at  the  start 
and  have  lost  less  time,"  the  girl  at  last  said,  "if  I 
had  n't  had  the  drawback  of  not  really  remembering 
Granny." 

"Oh  well,  7  remember  her!"  Mrs.  Brook  moaned 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

with  an  accent  that  evidently  struck  her  the  next 
moment  as  so  much  out  of  place  that  she  slightly 
deflected.  She  took  Nanda's  parasol  and  held  it  as 
if —  a  more  delicate  thing  much  than  any  one  of  hers 
—  she  simply  liked  to  have  it.  "  Her  clothes  —  at 
your  age  at  least  —  must  have  been  hideous.  Was  it 
at  the  place  he  took  you  to  that  he  gave  you  tea  ?" 
she  then  went  on. 

"Yes,  at  the  Museum.  We  had  an  orgy  in  the 
refreshment-room.  But  he  took  me  afterwards  to 
Tishy's,  where  we  had  another." 

"  He  went  in  with  you  ? "  Mrs.  Brook  had  sud 
denly  flashed  into  eagerness. 

"Oh  yes  —  I  made  him." 

"He  did  n't  want  to?" 

"  On  the  contrary  —  very  much.  But  he  does  n't 
do  everything  he  wants,"  said  Nanda. 

Mrs.  Brook  seemed  to  wonder.  "  You  mean  you  've 
also  to  want  it  ? " 

"Oh  no  —  that  isn't  enough.  What  I  suppose 
I  mean,"  Nanda  continued,  "is  that  he  does  n't  do 
anything  he  does  n't  want.  But  he  does  quite  enough," 
she  added. 

"And  who  then  was  at  Tishy's  ?" 

"Oh  poor  old  Tish  herself,  naturally,  and  Carrie 
Donner." 

"And  no  one  else  ?" 

The  girl  just  waited.  "Yes,  Mr.  Cashmore  came 
in." 

Her  mother  gave  a  groan  of  impatience.  "Ah 
again  ?  " 

Nanda  thought  an  instant.  "How  do  you  mean, 
320 


MRS.  BROOK 

'again'  ?  He  just  lives  there  as  much  as  he  ever  did, 
and  Tishy  can't  prevent  him." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Longdon  —  of  their  meet 
ing.  When  he  met  him  here  that  time  he  liked  it  so 
little.  Did  he  like  it  any  more  to-day  ?"  Mrs.  Brook 
quavered. 

"Oh  no,  he  hated  it." 

"  But  had  n't  he  —  if  he  should  go  in  —  known  he 
would?" 

"Yes,  perfectly.    But  he  wanted  to  see." 

"To  see  —  ?"  Mrs.  Brook  just  threw  out. 

"Well,  where  I  go  so  much.  And  he  knew  I  wished 
it." 

"I  don't  quite  see  why,"  Mrs.  Brook  mildly  ob 
served.  And  then  as  her  daughter  said  nothing  to 
help  her:  "At  any  rate  he  did  loathe  it  ?" 

Nanda,  for  a  reply,  simply  after  an  instant  put 
a  question.  "Well,  how  can  he  understand  ?" 

"You  mean,  like  me,  why  you  do  go  there  so  much  ? 
How  can  he  indeed  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  the  girl  returned  —  "it's  just 
that  he  understands  perfectly,  because  he  saw  them 
all,  in  such  an  extraordinary  way  —  well,  what  can 
I  ever  call  it  ?  —  clutch  me  and  cling  to  me." 

Mrs.  Brook,  with  full  gravity,  considered  this  pic 
ture.  "And  was  Mr.  Cashmore  to-day  so  ridiculous  ? " 

"Ah  he's  not  ridiculous,  mamma  —  he's  very  un 
happy.  He  thinks  now  Lady  Fanny  probably  won't 
go,  but  he  feels  that  may  be  after  all  only  the  worse 
for  him." 

"She  will  go,"  Mrs.  Brook  answered  with  one  of 
her  roundabout  approaches  to  decision.  "He  is  too 

321 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

great  an  idiot.  She  was  here  an  hour  ago,  and  if  ever 
a  woman  was  packed  — ! " 

"Well,"  Nanda  objected,  "but  does  n't  she  spend 
her  time  in  packing  and  unpacking?" 

This  enquiry,  however,  scarce  pulled  up  her  mother. 
"No  —  though  she  has,  no  doubt,  hitherto  wasted 
plenty  of  labour.  She  has  now  a  dozen  boxes  —  I 
could  see  them  there  in  her  wonderful  eyes  —  just 
waiting  to  be  called  for.  So  if  you're  counting  on  her 
not  going,  my  dear  — !"  Mrs.  Brook  gave  a  head- 
shake  that  was  the  warning  of  wisdom. 

"Oh  I  don't  care  what  she  does!"  Nanda  replied. 
"What  I  meant  just  now  was  that  Mr.  Longdon 
could  n't  understand  why,  with  so  much  to  make 
them  so,  they  could  n't  be  decently  happy." 

"And  did  he  wish  you  to  explain  ?" 

"  I  tried  to,  but  I  did  n't  make  it  any  better.  He 
does  n't  like  them.  He  does  n't  even  care  for  Tish." 

"  He  told  you  so  —  right  out  ? " 

"Oh,"  Nanda  said,  "of  course  I  asked  him.  I 
did  n't  press  him,  because  I  never  do  — ! " 

"You  never  do  ?"  Mrs.  Broqk  broke  in  as  with  the 
glimpse  of  a  new  light. 

The  girl  showed  an  indulgence  for  this  interest 
that  was  for  a  moment  almost  elderly.  "I  enjoy 
awfully  with  him  seeing  just  how  to  take  him." 

Her  tone  and  her  face  evidently  put  forth  for  her 
companion  at  this  juncture  something  freshly,  even 
quite  supremely  suggestive ;  and  yet  the  effect  of  them 
on  Mrs.  Brook's  part  was  only  a  question  so  off-hand 
that  it  might  already  often  have  been  asked.  The 
mother's  eyes,  to  ask  it,  we  may  none  the  less  add, 

322 


MRS.  BROOK 

attached  themselves  closely  to  the  daughter's,  and 
her  face  just  glowed.  "You  like  him  so  very  aw 
fully?" 

It  was  as  if  the  next  instant  Nanda  felt  herself  on 
her  guard.  Yet  she  spoke  with  a  certain  surrender. 
"Well,  it's  rather  intoxicating  to  be  one's  self  — !" 
She  had  only  a  drop  over  the  choice  of  her  term. 

"  So  tremendously  made  up  to,  you  mean  —  even 
by  a  little  fussy  ancient  man  ?  But  does  n't  he,  my 
dear,"  Mrs.  Brook  continued  with  encouragement, 
"make  up  to  you  ?" 

A  supposititious  spectator  would  certainly  on  this 
have  imagined  in  the  girl's  face  the  delicate  dawn 
of  a  sense  that  her  mother  had  suddenly  become 
vulgar,  together  with  a  general  consciousness  that 
the  way  to  meet  vulgarity  was  always  to  be  frank 
and  simple  and  above  all  to  ignore.  "He  makes 
one  enjoy  being  liked  so  much  —  liked  better,  I  do 
think,  than  I  've  ever  been  liked  by  any  one." 

If  Mrs.  Brook  hesitated  it  was,  however,  clearly  not 
because  she  had  noticed.  "Not  better  surely  than  by 
dear  Mitchy  ?  Or  even  if  you  come  to  that  by  Tishy 
herself." 

Nanda's  simplicity  maintained  itself.  "Oh  Mr. 
Longdon's  different  from  Tishy." 

Her  mother  again  hesitated.  "You  mean  of  course 
he  knows  more  ?" 

The  girl  considered  it.  "  He  does  n't  know  more. 
But  he  knows  other  things.  And  he's  pleasanter  than 
Mitchy." 

"You  mean  because  he  does  n't  want  to  marry 
you?" 

323 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

It  was  as  if  she  had  not  heard  that  Nanda  contin 
ued:  "Well,  he's  more  beautiful." 

"O-oh! "  cried  Mrs.  Brook,  with  a  drawn-out  extra 
vagance  of  comment  that  amounted  to  an  impugn 
ment  of  her  taste  even  by  herself. 

It  contributed  to  Nanda's  quietness.  "He's  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  people  in  the  world." 

Her  companion  at  this,  with  a  quick  wonder,  fixed 
her.  "Does  he,  my  dear,  want  to  marry  you  ?" 

"Yes  —  to  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  people." 

"But  I  mean  —  would  you  take  him?" 

Nanda,  rising,  met  the  question  with  a  short  ironic 
"Yes! "that  showed  her  first  impatience.  "It's  so 
charming  being  liked  without  being  approved." 

But  Mrs.  Brook  only  wanted  to  know.  "He 
does  n't  approve  —  ? " 

"No,  but  it  makes  no  difference.  It's  all  exactly 
right  —  it  does  n't  matter." 

Mrs.  Brook  seemed  to  wonder,  however,  exactly 
how  these  things  could  be.  "  He  does  n't  want  you 
to  give  up  anything  ?"  She  looked  as  if  swiftly  think 
ing  what  Nanda  might  give  up. 

"Oh  yes,  everything." 

It  was  as  if  for  an  instant  she  found  her  daughter 
inscrutable;  then  she  had  a  strange  smile.  "Me?" 

The  girl  was  perfectly  prompt.  "  Everything.  But 
he  would  n't  like  me  nearly  so  much  if  I  really  did." 

Her  mother  had  a  further  pause.  "Does  he  want 
to  adopt  you  ? "  Then  more  quickly  and  sadly,  though 
also  a  little  as  if  lacking  nerve  to  push  the  research: 
"We  could  n't  give  you  up,  Nanda." 

"Thank  you  so  much,  mamma.    But  we  shan't  be 

324 


MRS.  BROOK 

very  much  tried,"  Nanda  said,  "because  what  it 
comes  to  seems  to  be  that  I  'm  really  what  you  may 
call  adopting  him.  I  mean  I  'm  little  by  little  chang 
ing  him  —  gradually  showing  him  that,  as  I  could  n't 
possibly  have  been  different,  and  as  also  of  course  one 
can't  keep  giving  up,  the  only  way  is  for  him  not  to 
mind,  and  to  take  me  just  as  I  am.  That,  don't  you 
see  ?  is  what  he  would  never  have  expected  to  do." 

Mrs.  Brook  recognised  in  a  manner  the  explanation, 
but  still  had  her  wistfulness.  "  But  —  a  —  to  take 
you,  'as  you  are,'  where?" 

"Well,  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Brook.  Then,  however,  in  a  more 
exemplary  tone:  "Do  you  enjoy  so  very  much  your 
long  hours  with  him  ?" 

Nanda  appeared  for  an  instant  to  think  how  to 
express  it.  "Well,  we're  great  friends." 

"And  always  talking  about  Granny?" 

"Oh  no  —  really  almost  never  now." 

"  He  does  n't  think  so  awfully  much  of  her  ? " 
There  was  an  oddity  of  eagerness  in  the  question 
—  a  hope,  a  kind  of  dash,  for  something  that  might 
have  been  in  Nanda's  interest. 

The  girl  met  these  things  only  with  obliging  gravity. 
"I  think  he's  losing  any  sense  of  my  likeness.  He's 
too  used  to  it  —  or  too  many  things  that  are  too  differ 
ent  now  cover  it  up." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  as  she  took  this  in,  "I 
think  it 's  awfully  clever  of  you  to  get  only  the  good 
of  him  and  have  none  of  the  worry." 

Nanda  wondered.    "The  worry?" 

"You  leave  that  all  to  me"  her  mother  went  on, 
325 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

but  quite  forgivingly.  "I  hope  at  any  rate  that  the 
good,  for  you,  will  be  real." 

"Real  ?"  the  girl,  remaining  vague,  again  echoed. 

Mrs.  Brook  showed  for  this  not  perhaps  an  irrita 
tion,  but  a  flicker  of  austerity.  "You  must  remember 
we  Ve  a  great  many  things  to  think  about.  There  are 
things  we  must  take  for  granted  in  each  other  —  we 
must  all  help  in  our  way  to  pull  the  coach.  That's 
what  I  mean  by  worry,  and  if  you  don't  have  any  so 
much  the  better  for  you.  For  me  it's  in  the  day's 
work.  Your  father  and  I  have  most  to  think  about 
always  at  this  time,  as  you  perfectly  know  —  when 
we  have  to  turn  things  round  and  manage  somehow 
or  other  to  get  out  of  town,  have  to  provide  and  pinch, 
to  meet  all  the  necessities,  with  money,  money,  money 
at  every  turn  running  away  like  water.  The  children 
this  year  seem  to  fit  into  nothing,  into  nowhere,  and 
Harold 's  more  dreadful  than  he  has  ever  been,  doing 
nothing  at  all  for  himself  and  requiring  everything 
to  be  done  for  him.  He  talks  about  his  American  girl, 
with  millions,  who's  so  awfully  taken  with  him,  but 
I  can't  find  out  anything  about  her:  the  only  one, 
just  now,  that  people  seem  to  have  heard  of  is  the  one 
Booby  Manger's  engaged  to.  The  Mangers  literally 
snap  up  everything,"  Mrs.  Brook  quite  wailingly 
now  continued:  "the  Jew  man,  so  gigantically  rich 

—  who  is  he  ?  Baron  Schack  or  Schmack  — who  has 
just  taken  Cumberland  House  and  who  has  the  aw 
ful  stammer  —  or  what  is  it  ?   no  roof  to  his  mouth 

—  is  to  give  that  horrid  little  Algie,  to  do  his  conver 
sation  for  him,  four  hundred  a  year,  which  Harold 
pretended  to  me  that,  of  all  the  rush  of  young  men 

326 


MRS.  BROOK 

—  dozens!  — he  was  most  in  the  running  for.  Your 
father's  settled  gloom  is  terrible,  and  I  bear  all  the 
brunt  of  it;  we  get  literally  nothing  this  year  for 
the  Hovel,  yet  have  to  spend  on  it  heaven  knows 
what;  and  everybody,  for  the  next  three  months,  in 
Scotland  and  everywhere,  has  asked  us  for  the  wrong 
time  and  nobody  for  the  right:  so  that  I  assure  you 
I  don't  know  where  to  turn  —  which  does  n't  how 
ever  in  the  least  prevent  every  one  coming  to  me 
with  their  own  selfish  troubles."  It  was  as  if  Mrs. 
Brook  had  found  the  cup  of  her  secret  sorrows  sud 
denly  jostled  by  some  touch  of  which  the  perversity, 
though  not  completely  noted  at  the  moment,  proved, 
as  she  a  little  let  herself  go,  sufficient  to  make  it  flow 
over;  but  she  drew,  the  next  thing,  from  her  daugh 
ter's  stillness  a  reflexion  of  the  vanity  of  such  heat 
and  speedily  recovered  herself  as  if  in  order  with 
more  dignity  to  point  the  moral.  "I  can  carry  my 
burden  and  shall  do  so  to  the  end ;  but  we  must  each 
remember  that  we  shall  fall  to  pieces  if  we  don't  man 
age  to  keep  hold  of  some  little  idea  of  responsibility. 
I  positively  can't  arrange  without  knowing  when  it  is 
you  go  to  him." 

"To  Mr.  Longdon  ?  Oh  whenever  I  like,"  Nanda 
replied  very  gently  and  simply. 

"And  when  shall  you  be  so  good  as  to  like  ?" 

"Well,  he  goes  himself  on  Saturday,  and  if  I  want 
I  can  go  a  few  days  later." 

"And  what  day  can  you  go  if  /  want  ? "  Mrs.  Brook 
spoke  as  with  a  small  sharpness  —  just  softened 
indeed  in  time  —  produced  by  the  sight  of  a  freedom 
in  her  daughter's  life  that  suddenly  loomed  larger 

327 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

than  any  freedom  of  her  own.  It  was  still  a  part  of 
the  unsteadiness  of  the  vessel  of  her  anxieties;  but 
she  never  after  all  remained  publicly  long  subject  to 
the  influence  she  often  comprehensively  designated 
to  others  as  well  as  to  herself  as  "nastiness."  "What 
I  mean  is  that  you  might  go  the  same  day,  might  n't 
you?" 

"With  him  —  in  the  train  ?  I  should  think  so  if  you 
wish  it." 

"  But  would  he  wish  it  ?  I  mean  would  he  hate  it  ? " 

"I  don't  think  so  at  all,  but  I  can  easily  ask  him." 

Mrs.  Brook's  head  inclined  to  the  chimney  and  her 
eyes  to  the  window.  "  Easily  ? " 

Nanda  looked  for  a  moment  mystified  by  her 
mother's  insistence.  "I  can  at  any  rate  perfectly  try 
it." 

"  Remembering  even  that  mamma  would  never  have 
pushed  so  ? " 

Nanda's  face  seemed  to  concede  even  that  condi 
tion.  "Well,"  she  at  all  events  serenely  replied,  "I 
really  think  we  're  good  friends  enough  for  anything." 

It  might  have  been,  for  the  light  it  quickly  pro 
duced,  exactly  what  her  mother  had  been  working  to 
make  her  say.  "What  do  you  call  that  then,  I  should 
like  to  know,  but  his  adopting  you  ? " 

"Ah  I  don't  know  that  it  matters  much  what  it's 
called." 

"So  long  as  it  brings  with  it,  you  mean,"  Mrs. 
Brook  asked,  "all  the  advantages?" 

"Well  yes,"  said  Nanda,  who  had  now  begun  dimly 
to  smile  —  "call  them  advantages." 

Mrs.  Brook  had  a  pause.  "One  would  be  quite 
328 


MRS.  BROOK 

ready  to  do  that  if  one  only  knew  a  little  more  exactly 
what  they're  to  consist  of." 

"Oh  the  great  advantage,  I  feel,  is  doing  some 
thing  for  him" 

Nanda's  companion,  at  this,  hesitated  afresh.  "  But 
does  n't  that,  my  dear,  put  the  extravagance  of  your 
surrender  to  him  on  rather  an  odd  footing  ?  Charity, 
love,  begins  at  home,  and  if  it's  a  question  of  merely 
giving  you  've  objects  enough  for  your  bounty  with 
out  going  so  far." 

The  girl,  as  her  stare  showed,  was  held  a  moment 
by  her  surprise,  which  presently  broke  out.  "Why, 
I  thought  you  wanted  me  so  to  be  nice  to  him ! " 

"Well,  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  very  vulgar," 
said  Mrs.  Brook,  "if  I  tell  you  that  I  want  you  still 
more  to  have  some  idea  of  what  you  '11  get  by  it.  I  've 
no  wish,"  she  added,  "to  keep  on  boring  you  with 
Mitchy—  " 

"Don't,  don't!"  Nanda  pleaded. 

Her  mother  stopped  as  short  as  if  there  had  been 
something  in  her  tone  to  set  the  limit  the  more  utterly 
for  being  unstudied.  Yet  poor  Mrs.  Brook  could  n't 
leave  it  there.  "Then  what  do  you  get  instead  ?" 

"Instead  of  Mitchy?  Oh,"  said  Nanda,  "I  shall 
never  marry." 

Mrs.  Brook  at  this  turned  away,  moving  over  to 
the  window  with  quickened  weariness.  Nanda,  on  her 
side,  as  if  their  talk  had  ended,  went  across  to  the  sofa 
to  take  up  her  parasol  before  leaving  the  room,  an 
impulse  rather  favoured  than  arrested  by  the  arrival 
of  her  brother  Harold,  who  came  in  at  the  moment 
both  his  relatives  had  turned  a  back  to  the  door  and 

329 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

who  gave  his  sister,  as  she  faced  him,  a  greeting  that 
made  their  mother  look  round.  "  Hallo,  Nan  —  you 
are  lovely !  Ain't  she  lovely,  mother  ? " 

"No  !"  Mrs.  Brook  answered,  not,  however,  other 
wise  noticing  him.  Her  domestic  despair  centred  at 
this  instant  all  in  her  daughter.  "Well  then,  we  shall 
consider  —  your  father  and  I  —  that  he  must  take 
the  consequence." 

Nanda  had  now  her  hand  on  the  door,  while 
Harold  had  dropped  on  the  sofa.  "'He'  ?"  she  just 
sounded. 

"I  mean  Mr.  Longdon." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  the  consequence  ?" 

"Well,  it  will  do  for  the  beginning  of  it  that  you'll 
please  go  down  with  him." 

"On  Saturday  then?  Thanks,  mamma,"  the  girl 
returned. 

She  was  instantly  gone,  on  which  Mrs.  Brook  had 
more  attention  for  her  son.  This,  after  an  instant,  as 
she  approached  the  sofa  and  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
little  table  beside  it,  came  straight  out.  "Where  in 
the  world  is  that  five-pound  note  ? " 

Harold  looked  vacantly  about  him.  "What  five- 
pound  note  ? " 


BOOK   SEVENTH 
MITCHY 


I 


MR.  LONGDON'S  garden  took  in  three  acres  and,  full 
of  charming  features,  had  for  its  greatest  wonder  the 
extent  and  colour  of  its  old  brick  wall,  in  which 
the  pink  and  purple  surface  was  the  fruit  of  the  mild 
ages  and  the  protective  function,  for  a  visitor  strolling, 
sitting,  talking,  reading,  that  of  a  nurse  of  reverie. 
The  air  of  the  place,  in  the  August  time,  thrilled 
all  the  while  with  the  bliss  of  birds,  the  hum  of  little 
lives  unseen  and  the  flicker  of  white  butterflies.  It 
was  on  the  large  flat  enclosed  lawn  that  Nanda  spoke 
to  Vanderbank  of  the  three  weeks  she  would  have 
completed  there  on  the  morrow  —  weeks  that  had 
been  —  she  made  no  secret  of  it  —  the  happiest  she 
had  yet  spent  anywhere.  The  greyish  day  was  soft 
and  still  and  the  sky  faintly  marbled,  while  the  more 
newly  arrived  of  the  visitors  from  London,  who  had 
come  late  on  the  Friday  afternoon,  lounged  away 
the  morning  in  an  attitude  every  relaxed  line  of 
which  referred  to  the  holiday  he  had,  as  it  were  — 
at  first  merely  looking  about  and  victualling  —  sat 
down  in  front  of  as  a  captain  before  a  city.  There 
were  sitting-places,  just  there,  out  of  the  full  light, 
cushioned  benches  in  the  thick  wide  spread  of  old 
mulberry-boughs.  A  large  book  of  facts  lay  in  the 
young  man's  lap,  and  Nanda  had  come  out  to  him, 
half  an  hour  before  luncheon,  somewhat  as  Beatrice 
ime  out  to  Benedick:  not  to  call  him  immediately 

333 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

indeed  to  the  meal,  but  mentioning  promptly  that  she 
had  come  at  a  bidding.  Mr.  Longdon  had  rebuked 
her,  it  appeared,  for  her  want  of  attention  to  their 
guest,  showing  her  in  this  way,  to  her  pleasure,  how 
far  he  had  gone  toward  taking  her,  as  he  called  it, 
into  the  house. 

"You've  been  thinking  of  yourself,"  Vanderbank 
asked,  "as  a  mere  clerk  at  a  salary,  and  you  now  find 
that  you're  a  partner  and  have  a  share  in  the  con 
cern?" 

"It  seems  to  be  something  like  that.  But  does  n't 
a  partner  put  in  something  ?  What  have  I  put  in  ?" 

"Well  —  me,  for  one  thing.  Isn't  it  your  being 
here  that  has  brought  me  down  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  n't  have  come  for  him 
alone  ?  Then  don't  you  make  anything  of  his  attrac 
tion  ?  You  ought  to,"  said  Nanda,  "when  he  likes 
you  so." 

Vanderbank,  longing  for  a  river,  was  in  white  flan 
nels,  and  he  took  her  question  with  a  happy  laugh, 
a  handsome  face  of  good  humour  that  completed  the 
effect  of  his  long,  cool  fairness.  "Do  you  mind  my 
just  sitting  still,  do  you  mind  letting  me  smoke  and 
staying  with  me  a  while  ?  Perhaps  after  a  little  we  '11 
walk  about  —  shan't  we  ?  But  face  to  face  with  this 
dear  old  house,  in  this  jolly  old  nook,  one 's  too  con 
tented  to  move,  lest  raising  a  finger  even  should 
break  the  spell.  What  will  be  perfect  will  be  your 
just  sitting  down  —  do  sit  down  —  and  scolding  me 
a  little.  That,  my  dear  Nanda,  will  deepen  the  peace." 
Some  minutes  later,  while,  near  him  but  in  another 
chair,  she  fingered  the  impossible  book,  as  she  pro- 

334 


MITCHY 

nounced  it,  that  she  had  taken  from  him,  he  came 
back  to  what  she  had  last  said.  "Has  he  talked  to 
you  much  about  his  'liking*  me?" 

Nanda  waited  a  minute,  turning  over  the  book. 
"No." 

"Then  how  are  you  just  now  so  struck  with  it  ?" 

"I'm  not  struck  only  with  what  I'm  talked  to 
about.  I  don't  know,"  she  went  on,  "only  what  people 
tell  me." 

"Ah  no  — you're  too  much  your  mother's  daugh 
ter  for  that ! "  Vanderbank  leaned  back  and  smoked, 
and  though  all  his  air  seemed  to  say  that  when  one 
was  so  at  ease  for  gossip  almost  any  subject  would 
do,  he  kept  jogging  his  foot  with  the  same  small 
nervous  motion  as  during  the  half-hour  at  Mertle  that 
this  record  has  commemorated.  "You're  too  much 
one  of  us  all,"  he  continued.  "We've  tremendous 
perceptions,"  he  laughed.  "Of  course  I  should  have 
come  for  him.  But  after  all,"  he  added,  as  if  all 
sorts  of  nonsense  would  equally  serve,  "he  mightn't, 
except  for  you,  you  know,  have  asked  me." 

Nanda  so  far  accepted  this  view  as  to  reply :  "  That 's 
awfully  weak.  He's  so  modest  that  he  might  have 
been  afraid  of  your  boring  yourself." 

"That's  just  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  if  you  do,"  Nanda  returned,  "the  explana 
tion's  a  little  conceited." 

"Oh  I  only  made  it,"  Vanderbank  said,  "in  refer 
ence  to  his  modesty."  Beyond  the  lawn  the  house  was 
before  him,  old,  square,  red-roofed,  well  assured  of 
its  right  to  the  place  it  took  up  in  the  world.  This  was 
a  considerable  space  — in  the  little  world  at  least  of 

335 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Suffolk  —  and  the  look  of  possession  had  everywhere 
mixed  with  it,  in  the  form  of  old  windows  and  doors, 
the  tone  of  old  red  surfaces,  the  style  of  old  white 
facings,  the  age  of  old  high  creepers,  the  long  con 
firmation  of  time.  Suggestive  of  panelled  rooms,  of 
precious  mahogany,  of  portraits  of  women  dead,  of 
coloured  china  glimmering  through  glass  doors  and 
delicate  silver  reflected  on  bared  tables,  the  thing 
was  one  of  those  impressions  of  a  particular  period 
that  it  takes  two  centuries  to  produce.  "Fancy,"  the 
young  man  incoherently  exclaimed,  "his  caring  to 
leave  anything  so  loveable  as  all  this  to  come  up  and 
live  with  us!" 

The  girl  also  for  a  little  lost  herself.  "  Oh  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  —  the  charm  comes  out  so  as  one 
stays.  Little  by  little  it  grows  and  grows.  There  are 
old  things  everywhere  that  are  too  delightful.  He  lets 
me  explore  so  —  he  lets  me  rummage  and  rifle.  Every 
day  I  make  discoveries." 

Vanderbank  wondered  as  he  smoked.  "You  mean 
he  lets  you  take  things  — ?" 

"Oh  yes  —  up  to  my  room,  to  study  or  to  copy. 
There  are  old  patterns  that  are  too  dear  for  anything. 
It 's  when  you  live  with  them,  you  see,  that  you  know. 
Everything  in  the  place  is  such  good  company." 

"Your  mother  ought  to  be  here,"  Vanderbank 
presently  suggested.  "She's  so  fond  of  good  com 
pany."  Then  as  Nanda  answered  nothing  he  went 
on:  "Was  your  grandmother  ever  ?" 

"Never,"  the  girl  promptly  said.  "Never,"  she  re 
peated  in  a  tone  quite  different.  After  which  she 
added :  "  I  'm  the  only  one." 

336 


MITCHY 

"Oh,  and  I.  'Me  and  you,'  as  they  say,"  her  com 
panion  amended. 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Mitchy,  who's  to  come  down  — 
please  don't  forget  —  this  afternoon." 

Vanderbank  had  another  of  his  contemplative 
pauses.  "Thank  you  for  reminding  me.  I  shall 
spread  myself  as  much  as  possible  before  he  comes  — 
try  to  produce  so  much  of  my  effect  that  I  shall  be 
safe.  But  what  did  Mr.  Longdon  ask  him  for?" 

"Ah,"  said  Nanda  gaily,  "what  did  he  ask  you 
for?" 

"Why,  for  the  reason  you  just  now  mentioned  — 
that  his  interest  in  me  is  so  uncontrollable." 

"Then  is  n't  his  interest  in  Mitchy — " 

"Of  the  same  general  order?"  Vanderbank  broke 
in.  "  Not  in  the  least."  He  seemed  to  look  for  a  way  to 
express  the  distinction  —  which  suddenly  occurred 
to  him.  "  He  was  n't  in  love  with  Mitchy's  mother." 

"No"  —  Nanda  turned  it  over.  "  Mitchy's  mother, 
it  appears,  was  awful.  Mr.  Cashmore  knew  her." 

Vanderbank's  smoke-pufFs  were  profuse  and  his 
pauses  frequent.  "Awful  to  Mr.  Cashmore  ?  I'm  glad 
to  hear  it  —  he  must  have  deserved  it.  But  I  believe 
in  her  all  the  same.  Mitchy's  often  awful  himself," 
the  young  man  rambled  on.  "Just  so  I  believe  in 
him." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Nanda  —  "and  that's  why  I  asked 
him." 

"  You  asked  him,  my  dear  child  ?  Have  you  the 
inviting?" 

"Oh  yes." 

The  eyes  he  turned  on  her  seemed  really  to  try  if 

337 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

she  jested  or  were  serious.  "  So  you  arranged  for  me 
too?" 

She  turned  over  again  a  few  leaves  of  his  book  and, 
closing  it  with  something  of  a  clap,  transferred  it  to 
the  bench  beside  him  —  a  movement  in  which,  as 
if  through  a  drop  into  thought,  he  rendered  her  no 
assistance.  "What  I  mean  is  that  I  proposed  it  to 
Mr.  Longdon,  I  suggested  he  should  be  asked.  I  've 
a  reason  for  seeing  him  —  I  want  to  talk  to  him.  And 
do  you  know,"  the  girl  went  on,  "what  Mr.  Longdon 
said?" 

"Something  splendid  of  course." 

"  He  asked  if  you  would  n't  perhaps  dislike  his  being 
here  with  you." 

Vanderbank,  throwing  back  his  head,  laughed, 
smoked,  jogged  his  foot  more  than  ever.  "  Awfully  nice. 
Dear  old  Mitch !  How  little  afraid  of  him  you  are ! " 

Nanda  wondered.    "Of  Mitch  ?" 

"Yes,  of  the  tremendous  pull  he  really  has.  It's  all 
very  well  to  talk  —  he  has  it.  But  of  course  I  don't 
mean  I  don't  know"  — and  as  with  the  effect  of  his 
nervous  sociability  he  shifted  his  position.  "I  per 
fectly  see  that  you're  not  afraid.  I  perfectly  know 
what  you  have  in  your  head.  I  should  never  in  the 
least  dream  of  accusing  you  —  as  far  as  he  is  con 
cerned  —  of  the  least  disposition  to  flirt ;  any  more 
indeed,"  Vanderbank  pleasantly  pursued,  "than  even 
of  any  general  tendency  of  that  sort.  No,  my  dear 
Nanda "  —  he  kindly  kept  it  up  —  "I  will  say  for 
you  that,  though  a  girl,  thank  heaven,  and  awfully 
much  a  girl,  you  're  really  not  on  the  whole  more  of 
a  flirt  than  a  respectable  social  ideal  prescribes." 

338 


MITCHY 

"Thank  you  most  tremendously,"  his  companion 
quietly  replied. 

Something  in  the  tone  of  it  made  him  laugh  out,  and 
the  particular  sound  went  well  with  all  the  rest,  with 
the  August  day  and  the  charming  spot  and  the  young 
man's  lounging  figure  and  Nanda's  own  little  hovering 
hospitality.  "Of  course  I  strike  you  as  patronising 
you  with  unconscious  sublimity.  Well,  that's  all 
right,  for  what's  the  most  natural  thing  to  do  in  these 
conditions  but  the  most  luxurious  ?  Won't  Mitchy  be 
wonderful  for  feeling  and  enjoying  them  ?  I  assure 
you  I  'm  delighted  he 's  coming."  Then  in  a  different 
tone  a  moment  later,  "Do  you  expect  to  be  here 
long  ? "  he  asked. 

It  took  Nanda  some  time  to  say.  "As  long  as  Mr. 
Longdon  will  keep  me,  I  suppose  —  if  that  does  n't 
sound  very  horrible." 

"Oh  he'll  keep  you!  Only  won't  he  himself," 
Vanderbank  went  on,  "be  coming  up  to  town  in  the 
course  of  the  autumn  ? " 

"Well,  in  that  case  I'd  perfectly  stay  here  without 
him." 

"  And  leave  him  in  London  without  you  ?  Ah  that 's 
not  what  we  want:  he  would  n't  be  at  all  the  same 
thing  without  you.  Least  of  all  for  himself ! "  Vander 
bank  declared. 

Nanda  again  thought.  "Yes,  that's  what  makes 
him  funny,  I  suppose  —  his  curious  infatuation.  I  set 
him  off — what  do  you  call  it  ?  —  show  him  off:  by  his 
going  round  and  round  me  as  the  acrobat  on  the  horse 
in  the  circus  goes  round  the  clown.  He  has  said  a  great 
deal  to  me  of  your  mother,"  she  irrelevantly  added. 

339 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Ok  everything  that's  kind  of  course,  or  you 
would  n't  mention  it." 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  said  Nanda. 

"I  see,  I  see  —  most  charming  of  him."  Vander- 
bank  kept  his  high  head  thrown  back  as  for  the  view, 
with  a  bright  equal  general  interest,  of  everything 
that  was  before  them,  whether  talked  of  or  seen. 
"  Who  do  you  think  I  yesterday  had  a  letter  from  ? 
An  extraordinary  funny  one  from  Harold.  He  gave 
me  all  the  family  news." 

"And  what  is  the  family  news?"  the  girl  after  a 
minute  enquired. 

"Well,  the  first  great  item  is  that  he  himself  — " 

"Wanted,"  Nanda  broke  in,  "to  borrow  five 
pounds  of  you  ?  I  say  that,"  she  added,  "because  if  he 
wrote  to  you  — " 

"It  could  n't  have  been  in  such  a  case  for  the  simple 
pleasure  of  the  intercourse  ?"  Vanderbank  hesitated, 
but  continued  not  to  look  at  her.  "What  do  you 
know,  pray,  of  poor  Harold's  borrowings  ?" 

"Oh  I  know  as  I  know  other  things.  Don't  I  know 
everything  ?" 

"Do  you?  I  should  rather  ask,"  the  young  man 
gaily  enough  replied. 

"  Why  should  I  not  ?  How  should  I  not  ?  You 
know  what  I  know."  Then  as  to  explain  herself  and 
attenuate  a  little  the  sudden  emphasis  with  which  she 
had  spoken :  "  I  remember  your  once  telling  me  that 
I  must  take  in  things  at  my  pores." 

Her  companion  stared,  but  with  his  laugh  again 
changed  his  posture.  "That  you  'must'  —  ?" 

"That  I  do  —  and  you  were  quite  right." 
340 


MITCHY 

"And  when  did  I  make  this  extraordinary 
charge  ? " 

"Ah  then,"  said  Nanda,  "you  admit  it  is  a  charge. 
It  was  a  long  time  ago  —  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
Which  made  it  worse ! "  she  dropped. 

It  made  it  at  all  events  now  for  Vanderbank  more 
amusing.  "  Ah  not  worse  —  better ! " 

She  thought  a  moment.  "Because  in  that  case  I 
might  n't  have  understood  ?  But  that  I  do  understand 
is  just  what  you  Ve  always  meant." 

"'Always/  my  dear  Nanda?  I  feel  somehow," 
he  rejoined  very  kindly,  "as  if  you  overwhelmed 
me!" 

"You  'feel'  as  if  I  did  —  but  the  reality  is  just  that 
I  don't.  The  day  I  overwhelm  you,  Mr.  Van — !" 
She  let  that  pass,  however;  there  was  too  much  to  say 
about  it  and  there  was  something  else  much  simpler. 
"Girls  understand  now.  It  has  got  to  be  faced,  as 
Tishy  says." 

"Oh  well,"  Vanderbank  laughed,  "we  don't  re 
quire  Tishy  to  point  that  out  to  us.  What  are  we  all 
doing  most  of  the  time  but  trying  to  face  it  ?" 

"  Doing  ?  Are  n't  you  doing  rather  something  very 
different  ?  You  're  just  trying  to  dodge  it.  You  're 
trying  to  make  believe  —  not  perhaps  to  yourselves 
but  to  us  —  that  it  is  n't  so." 

"  But  surely  you  don't  want  us  to  be  any  worse ! " 

She  shook  her  head  with  brisk  gravity.  "  We  don't 
care  really  what  you  are." 

His  amusement  now  dropped  to  her  straighter. 
"Your  'we'  is  awfully  beautiful.  It's  charming  to 
hear  you  speak  for  the  whole  lovely  lot.  Only  you 

341 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

speak,  you  know,  as  if  you  were  just  the  class  apart 
that  you  yet  complain  of  our  —  by  our  scruples  — 
implying  you  to  be." 

She  considered  this  objection  with  her  eyes  on  his 
face.  "Well  then  we  do  care.  Only  — !" 

"Only  it's  a  big  subject." 

"Oh  yes  —  no  doubt;  it's  a  big  subject."  She  ap 
peared  to  wish  to  meet  him  on  everything  reasonable. 
"Even  Mr.  Longdon  admits  that." 

Vanderbank  wondered.  "You  mean  you  talk  over 
with  him  —  ! " 

"The  subject  of  girls  ?  Why  we  scarcely  discuss 
anything  else." 

"Oh  no  wonder  then  you're  hot  bored.  But  you 
mean,"  he  asked,  "that  he  recognises  the  inevitable 
change  —  ?" 

"  He  can't  shut  his  eyes  to  the  facts.  He  sees  we  're 
quite  a  different  thing." 

"I  dare  say"  — her  friend  was  fully  appreciative. 
"Yet  the  old  thing  —  what  do  you  know  of  it  ?" 

"I  personally?  Well,  I've  seen  some  change  even 
in  my  short  life.  And  are  n't  the  old  books  full  of  us  ? 
Then  Mr.  Longdon  himself  has  told  me." 

Vanderbank  smoked  and  smoked.  "You've  gone 
into  it  with  him  ?" 

"As  far  as  a  man  and  a  woman  can  together." 

As  he  took  her  in  at  this  with  a  turn  of  his  eye  he 
might  have  had  in  his  ears  the  echo  of  all  the  times 
it  had  been  dropped  in  Buckingham  Crescent  that 
Nanda  was  "wonderful."  She  was  indeed.  "Oh  he's 
of  course  on  certain  sides  shy." 

"Awfully  —  too    beautifully.      And    then    there's 
342 


MITCHY 

Aggie,"  the  girl  pursued.  "I  mean  for  the  real  old 
thing." 

"Yes,  no  doubt  —  if  she  be  the  real  old  thing.  But 
what  the  deuce  really  is  Aggie  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Nanda  with  the  frankest  interest, 
"she's  a  miracle.  If  one  could  be  her  exactly,  ab 
solutely,  without  the  least  little  mite  of  change,  one 
would  probably  be  wise  to  close  with  it.  Otherwise 
—  except  for  anything  but  that  —  I  'd  rather  brazen  it 
out  as  myself." 

There  fell  between  them  on  this  a  silence  of  some 
minutes,  after  which  it  would  probably  not  have  been 
possible  for  either  to  say  if  their  eyes  had  met  while  it 
lasted.  This  was  at  any  rate  not  the  case  as  Vander- 
bank  at  last  remarked:  "Your  brass,  my  dear  young 
lady,  is  pure  gold!" 

"Then  it's  of  me,  I  think,  that  Harold  ought  to 
borrow." 

"You  mean  therefore  that  mine  isn't?"  Vander- 
bank  went  on. 

"Well,  you  really  have  n't  any  natural  'cheek'  — 
not  like  some  of  them.  You  're  in  yourself  as  uneasy, 
if  anything 's  said  and  every  one  giggles  or  makes  some 
face,  as  Mr.  Longdon,  and  if  Lord  Petherton  had  n't 
once  told  me  that  a  man  hates  almost  as  much  to  be 
called  modest  as  a  woman  does,  I'd  say  that  very 
often  in  London  now  you  must  pass  some  bad  mo 
ments." 

The  present  might  precisely  have  been  one  of  them, 
we  should  doubtless  have  gathered,  had  we  seen  fully 
recorded  in  Vanderbank's  face  the  degree  to  which 
this  prompt  response  embarrassed  or  at  least  stupefied 

343 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

him.     But  he  could  always  provisionally  laugh.    "I 
like  your  'in  London  now' !" 

"  It 's  the  tone  and  the  current  and  the  effect  of  all 
the  others  that  push  you  along/'  she  went  on  as  if  she 
had  n't  heard  him.  "If  such  things  are  contagious,  as 
every  one  says,  you  prove  it  perhaps  as  much  as  any 
one.  But  you  don't  begin  "  —  she  continued  blandly 
enough  to  work  it  out  for  him;  "or  you  can't  at  least 
originally  have  begun.  Any  one  would  know  that 
now  —  from  the  terrific  effect  I  see  I  produce  on  you 
by  talking  this  way.  There  it  is  —  it's  all  out  before 
one  knows  it,  is  n't  it,  and  I  can't  help  it  any  more 
than  you  can,  can  I?"  So  she  appeared  to  put  it 
to  him,  with  something  in  her  lucidity  that  would 
have  been  infinitely  touching;  a  strange  grave  calm 
consciousness  of  their  common  doom  and  of  what  in 
especial  in  it  would  be  worst  for  herself.  He  sprang 
up  indeed  after  an  instant  as  if  he  had  been  infinitely 
touched;  he  turned  away,  taking  just  near  her  a  few 
steps  to  and  fro,  gazed  about  the  place  again,  but  this 
time  without  the  air  of  particularly  seeing  it,  and  then 
came  back  to  her  as  if  from  a  greater  distance.  An 
observer  at  all  initiated  would,  at  the  juncture,  fairly 
have  hung  on  his  lips,  and  there  was  in  fact  on  Van- 
derbank's  part  quite  the  look  of  the  man  —  though  it 
lasted  but  just  while  we  seize  it  —  in  suspense  about 
himself.  The  most  initiated  observer  of  all  would  have 
been  poor  Mr.  Longdon,  in  that  case  destined,  how 
ever,  to  be  also  the  most  defeated,  with  the  sign  of 
his  tension  a  smothered  "Ah  if  he  doesn't  do  it 
now!"  Well,  Vanderbank  did  n't  do  it  "now,"  and 
the  odd  slow  irrelevant  sigh  he  gave  out  might  have 

344 


MITCHY 

sufficed  as  the  record  of  his  recovery  from  a  peril  last 
ing  just  long  enough  to  be  measured.  Had  there  been 
any  measure  of  it  meanwhile  for  Nanda  ?  There  was 
nothing  at  least  to  show  either  the  presence  or  the 
relief  of  anxiety  in  the  way  in  which,  by  a  prompt 
transition,  she  leYt  her  last  appeal  to  him  simply  to 
take  care  of  itself.  "You  have  n't  denied  that  Harold 
does  borrow." 

He  gave  a  sound  as  of  cheer  for  this  luckily  firmer 
ground.  "My  dear  child,  I  never  lent  the  silly  boy 
five  pounds  in  my  life.  In  fact  I  like  the  way  you  talk 
of  that.  I  don't  know  quite  for  what  you  take  me, 
but  the  number  of  persons  to  whom  I  have  lent  five 
pounds  — ! " 

"Is  so  awfully  small"  —  she  took  him  up  on  it  — 
"  as  not  to  look  so  very  well  for  you  ? "  She  held  him 
an  instant  as  with  the  fine  intelligence  of  his  meaning 
in  this,  and  then,  though  not  with  sharpness,  broke 
out:  "Why  are  you  trying  to  make  out  that  you're 
nasty  and  stingy  ?  Why  do  you  misrepresent  —  ?" 

"  My  natural  generosity  ?  I  don't  misrepresent  any 
thing,  but  I  take,  I  think,  rather  markedly  good  care 
of  money."  She  had  remained  in  her  place  and  he 
was  before  her  on  the  grass,  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  his  manner  perhaps  a  little  awkward.  "The  way 
you  young  things  talk  of  it ! " 

"Harold  talks  of  it  —  but  I  don't  think  I  do.  I  'm 
not  a  bit  expensive  —  ask  mother,  or  even  ask  father. 
I  do  with  awfully  little  —  for  clothes  and  things,  and 
I  could  easily  do  with  still  less.  Harold 's  a  born  con 
sumer,  as  Mitchy  says ;  he  says  also  he 's  one  of  those 
people  who  will  never  really  want." 

345 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Ah  for  that,  Mitchy  himself  will  never  let  him." 

"Well  then,  with  every  one  helping  us  all  round, 
are  n't  we  a  lovely  family  ?  I  don't  speak  of  it  to  tell 
tales,  but  when  you  mention  hearing  from  Harold  all 
sorts  of  things  immediately  come  over  me.  We  seem 
to  be  all  living  more  or  less  on  oth%r  people,  all  im 
mensely  'beholden.'  You  can  easily  say  of  course  that 
I  'm  worst  of  all.  The  children  and  their  people,  at 
Bognor,  are  in  borrowed  quarters  —  mother  got  them 
lent  her  —  as  to  which,  no  doubt,  I  'm  perfectly  aware 
that  I  ought  to  be  there  sharing  them,  taking  care  of 
my  little  brother  and  sister,  instead  of  sitting  here  at 
Mr.  Longdon's  expense  to  expose  everything  and  criti 
cise.  Father  and  mother,  in  Scotland,  are  on  a  grand 
campaign.  Well"  —  she  pulled  herself  up  —  "I 'm 
not  in  that  at  any  rate.  Say  you  've  lent  Harold  only 
five  shillings,"  she  went  on. 

Vanderbank  stood  smiling.  "Well,  say  I  have.  I 
never  lend  any  one  whatever  more." 

"It  only  adds  to  my  conviction,"  Nanda  explained, 
"that  he  writes  to  Mr.  Longdon." 

"  But  if  Mr.  Longdon  does  n't  say  so  —  ? "  Vander 
bank  objected. 

"Oh  that  proves  nothing."  She  got  up  as  she  spoke. 
"Harold  also  works  Granny."  He  only  laughed  out 
at  first  for  this,  while  she  went  on:  "You'll  think  I 
make  myself  out  fearfully  deep  —  I  mean  in  the  way 
of  knowing  everything  without  having  to  be  told. 
That  is,  as  you  say,  mamma's  great  accomplishment, 
so  it  must  be  hereditary.  Besides,  there  seem  to  me 
only  too  many  things  one  is  told.  Only  Mr.  Longdon 
has  in  fact  said  nothing." 

346 


MITCHY 

She  had  looked  about  responsibly  —  not  to  leave  in 
disorder  the  garden-nook  they  had  occupied;  pick 
ing  up  a  newspaper  and  changing  the  place  of  a 
cushion.  "I  do  think  that  with  him  you're  remark 
able,"  Vanderbank  observed  —  "putting  on  one  side 
all  you  seem  to  know  and  on  the  other  all  he  holds  his 
tongue  about.  What  then  does  he  say?"  the  young 
man  asked  after  a  slight  pause  and  perhaps  even  with 
a  slight  irritation. 

Nanda  glanced  round  again  —  she  was  folding, 
rather  carefully,  her  paper.  Presently  her  glance  met 
their  friend,  who,  having  come  out  of  one  of  the  long 
windows  that  opened  to  the  lawn,  had  stopped  there 
to  watch  them.  "  He  says  just  now  that  luncheon 's 
ready." 


II 


"  I  'VE  made  him,"  she  said  in  the  drawing-room  to 
Mitchy,  "make  Mr.  Van  go  with  him." 

Mr.  Longdon,  in  the  rain,  which  had  come  on 
since  the  morning,  had  betaken  himself  to  church, 
and  his  other  guest,  with  sufficiently  marked  good 
humour,  had  borne  him  company.  The  windows  of 
the  drawing-room  looked  at  the  wet  garden,  all  vivid 
and  rich  in  the  summer  shower,  and  Mitchy,  after 
seeing  Vanderbank  turn  up  his  trousers  and  fling 
back  a  last  answer  to  the  not  quite  sincere  chaff  his 
submission  had  engendered,  adopted  freely  and 
familiarly  the  prospect  not  only  of  a  grateful  fresh 
ened  lawn,  but  of  a  good  hour  in  the  very  pick,  as  he 
called  it,  of  his  actual  happy  conditions.  The  favour 
ing  rain,  the  dear  old  place,  the  charming  serious 
house,  the  large  inimitable  room,  the  absence  of  the 
others,  the  present  vision  of  what  his  young  friend  had 
given  him  to  count  on  —  the  sense  of  these  delights 
was  expressed  in  his  fixed  generous  glare.  He  was  at 
first  too  pleased  even  to  sit  down;  he  measured  the 
great  space  from  end  to  end,  admiring  again  every 
thing  he  had  admired  before  and  protesting  afresh 
that  no  modern  ingenuity  —  not  even  his  own,  to 
which  he  did  justice  —  could  create  effects  of  such 
purity.  The  final  touch  in  the  picture  before  them 
was  just  the  composer's  ignorance.  Mr.  Longdon 
had  not  made  his  house,  he  had  simply  lived  it,  and 

348 


MITCHY 

the  "taste"  of  the  place  —  Mitchy  in  certain  con 
nexions  abominated  the  word  —  was  just  nothing 
more  than  the  beauty  of  his  life.  Everything  on  every 
side  had  dropped  straight  from  heaven,  with  nowhere 
a  bargaining  thumb-mark,  a  single  sign  of  the  shop. 
All  this  would  have  been  a  wonderful  theme  for  dis 
course  in  Buckingham  Crescent  —  so  happy  an  exer 
cise  for  the  votaries  of  that  temple  of  analysis  that  he 
repeatedly  spoke  of  their  experience  of  it  as  crying 
aloud  for  Mrs.  Brook.  The  questions  it  set  in  motion 
for  the  perceptive  mind  were  exactly  those  that,  as  he 
said,  most  made  them  feel  themselves.  Vanderbank's 
plea  for  his  morning  had  been  a  pile  of  letters  to 
work  off,  and  Mitchy  —  then  coming  down,  as  he 
announced  from  the  first,  ready  for  anything  —  had 
gone  to  church  with  Mr.  Longdon  and  Nanda  in  the 
finest  spirit  of  curiosity.  He  now  —  after  the  girl's 
remark  —  turned  away  from  his  view  of  the  rain, 
which  he  found  different  somehow  from  other  rain, 
as  everything  else  was  different,  and  replied  that  he 
knew  well  enough  what  she  could  make  Mr.  Longdon 
do,  but  only  wondered  at  Mr.  Longdon's  secret  for 
acting  on  their  friend.  He  was  there  before  her  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  appreciation  winking 
from  every  yellow  spot  in  his  red  necktie.  "Afternoon 
service  of  a  wet  Sunday  in  a  small  country  town  is 
a  large  order.  Does  Van  do  everything  the  governor 
wants  ? " 

"He  may  perhaps  have  had  a  suspicion  of  what 
/  want,"  Nanda  explained.  "If  I  want  particularly 
to  talk  to  you  — !" 

"  He  has  got  out  of  the  way  to  give  me  a  chance  ? 
349 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Well  then  he's  as  usual  simply  magnificent.  How 
can  I  express  the  bliss  of  finding  myself  enclosed  with 
you  in  this  sweet  old  security,  this  really  unimagined 
sanctity?  Nothing's  more  charming  than  suddenly 
to  come  across  something  sharp  and  fresh  after  we  've 
thought  there  was  nothing  more  that  could  draw 
from  us  a  groan.  We've  supposed  we've  had  it  all, 
have  squeezed  the  last  impression  out  of  the  last 
disappointment,  penetrated  to  the  last  familiarity  in 
the  last  surprise ;  then  some  fine  day  we  find  that  we 
have  n't  done  justice  to  life.  There  are  little  things 
that  pop  up  and  make  us  feel  again.  What  may 
happen  is  after  all  incalculable.  There's  just  a  little 
chuck  of  the  dice,  and  for  three  minutes  we  win. 
These,  my  dear  young  lady,  are  my  three  minutes. 
You  would  n't  believe  the  amusement  I  get  from 
them,  and  how  can  I  possibly  tell  you  ?  There 's  a 
faint  divine  old  fragrance  here  in  the  room  —  or 
does  n't  it  perhaps  reach  you  ?  I  shan't  have  lived 
without  it,  but  I  see  now  I  had  been  afraid  I  should. 
You,  on  your  side,  won't  have  lived  without  some 
touch  of  greatness.  This  moment 's  great  and  you  've 
produced  it.  You  were  great  when  you  felt  all  you 
could  produce.  Therefore,"  Mitchy  went  on,  paus 
ing  once  more,  as  he  walked,  before  a  picture,  "  I 
won't  pull  the  whole  thing  down  by  the  vulgarity  of 
wishing  I  too  only  had  a  first-rate  Cotman." 

"  Have  you  given  up  some  very  big  thing  to  come  ? " 
Nanda  replied  to  this. 

"What  in  the  world  is  very  big,  my  child,  but  the 
beauty  of  this  hour  ?  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  what, 
when  I  got  Mr.  Longdon's  note,  I  gave  up.  Don't 

350 


MITCHY 

ask  me  for  an  account  of  anything;  everything  went 
—  became  imperceptible.  I  will  say  that  for  myself: 
I  shed  my  badness,  I  do  forget  people,  with  a  facility 
that  makes  me,  for  bits,  for  little  patches,  so  far  as 
they  're  concerned,  cease  to  be;  so  that  my  life  is 
spotted  all  over  with  momentary  states  in  which 
I  'm  as  the  dead  of  whom  nothing 's  said  but  good." 
He  had  strolled  toward  her  again  while  she  smiled  at 
him.  "I've  died  for  this,  Nanda." 

"The  only  difficulty  I  see,"  she  presently  replied, 
"is  that  you  ought  to  marry  a  woman  really  clever 
and  that  I  'm  not  quite  sure  what  there  may  be  of  that 
in  Aggie." 

"  In  Aggie  ? "  her  friend  echoed  very  gently.  "  Is  that 
what  you  've  sent  for  me  for  —  to  talk  about  Aggie  ? " 

"  Did  n't  it  occur  to  you  it  might  be  ? " 

"That  it  could  n't  possibly, you  mean,  be  anything 
else  ? "  He  looked  about  for  the  place  in  which  it 
would  express  the  deepest  surrender  to  the  scene  to 
sit  —  then  sank  down  with  a  beautiful  prompt  sub 
mission.  "I've  no  idea  of  what  occurred  to  me  — 
nothing  at  least  but  the  sense  that  I  had  occurred 
to  you.  The  occurrence  is  clay  in  the  hands  of  the 
potter.  Do  with  me  what  you  will." 

"You  appreciate  everything  so  wonderfully," 
Nanda  said,  "that  it  ought  n't  to  be  hard  for  you  to 
appreciate  her.  I  do  dream  so  you  may  save  her. 
That's  why  I  have  n't  waited." 

"The  only  thing  that  remains  to  me  in  life,"  he 
answered,  "is  a  certain  accessibility  to  the  thought  of 
what  I  may  still  do  to  figure  a  little  in  your  eye ;  but 
that's  precisely  a  thought  you  may  assist  to  become 

351 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

clearer.  You  may  for  instance  give  me  some  pledge 
or  sign  that  if  I  do  figure  —  prance  and  caracole  and 
sufficiently  kick  up  the  dust  —  your  eye  won't  suffer 
itself  to  be  distracted  from  me.  I  think  there 's  no 
adventure  I  'm  not  ready  to  undertake  for  you ;  yet 
my  passion  —  chastened,  through  all  this,  purified, 
austere  —  is  still  enough  of  this  world  not  wholly  to 
have  renounced  the  fancy  of  some  small  reward." 

"How  small?"  the  girl  asked. 

She  spoke  as  if  feeling  she  must  take  from  him 
in  common  kindness  at  least  as  much  as  she  would 
make  him  take,  and  the  serious  anxious  patience  such 
a  consciousness  gave  her  tone  was  met  by  Mitchy 
with  a  charmed  reasonableness  that  his  habit  of 
hyperbole  did  nothing  to  misrepresent.  He  glowed 
at  her  with  the  fullest  recognition  that  there  was 
something  he  was  there  to  discuss  with  her,  but  with 
the  assurance  in  every  soft  sound  of  him  that  no 
height  to  which  she  might  lift  the  discussion  would 
be  too  great  for  him  to  reach.  His  every  cadence  and 
every  motion  was  an  implication,  as  from  one  to  the 
other,  of  the  exquisite.  Oh  he  could  sustain  it!  "Well, 
I  mean  the  establishment  of  something  between  us. 
I  mean  your  arranging  somehow  that  we  shall  be 
drawn  more  together  —  know  together  something 
nobody  else  knows.  I  should  like  so  terrifically  to 
have  a  relation  that  is  a  secret,  with  you." 

"  Oh  if  that 's  all  you  want  you  can  be  easily  grati 
fied.  Rien  de  plus  facile,  as  mamma  says.  I  'm  full 
of  secrets  —  I  think  I  'm  really  most  secretive.  I  '11 
share  almost  any  one  of  them  with  you  —  if  it 's  only 
a  good  one." 

352 


MITCHY 

Mitchy  debated.  "You  mean  you  '11  choose  it  your 
self?  You  won't  let  it  be  one  of  mine  ?" 

Nanda  wondered.    "But  what's  the  difference?" 

Her  companion  jumped  up  again  and  for  a  mo 
ment  pervaded  the  place.  "When  you  say  such  things 
as  that,  you're  of  a  beauty  — !  May  it,"  he  asked  as 
he  stopped  before  her, "  be  one  of  mine  —  a  perfectly 
awful  one  ? " 

She  showed  her  clearest  interest.  "As  I  suppose  the 
most  awful  secrets  are  the  best  —  yes,  certainly." 

"I'm  hideously  tempted."  But  he  hung  fire;  then 
dropping  into  his  chair  again:  "It  would  be  too 
bad.  I  'm  afraid  I  can't." 

"Then  why  won't  this  do,  just  as  it  is  ?" 

'This'  ?"    He  looked  over  the  big  bland  room. 
"Which?" 

"Why  what  you're  here  for?" 

"  My  dear  child  I  'm  here  —  most  of  all  —  to  love 
you  more  than  ever ;  and  there 's  an  absence  of  favour 
ing  mystery  about  that  —  !" 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  seeing  what  he  meant  and 
only  asking  to  remedy  it.  "There 's  a  certain  amount 
of  mystery  we  can  now  make  —  that  it  strikes  me  in 
fact  we  must  make.  Dear  Mitchy,"  she  continued 
almost  with  eagerness,  "  I  don't  think  we  can  really 
tell." 

He  had  fallen  back  in  his  chair,  not  looking  at  her 
now,  and  with  his  hands,  from  his  supported  elbows, 
clasped  to  keep  himself  more  quiet.  "Are  you  still 
talking  about  Aggie  ? " 

"Why  I've  scarcely  begun!" 

"  Oh ! "  It  was  not  irritation  he  appeared  to  express, 

353    ,  • 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

but  the  slight  strain  of  an  effort  to  get  into  relation 
with  the  subject.  Better  to  focus  the  image  he  closed 
his  eyes  a  while. 

"You  speak  of  something  that  may  draw  us  to 
gether,  and  I  simply  reply  that  if  you  don't  feel  how 
near  together  we  are  in  this  I  should  n't  imagine  you 
ever  would.  You  must  have  wonderful  notions,"  she 
presently  went  on,  "of  the  ideal  state  of  union.  I  pack 
every  one  off  for  you  —  I  banish  everything  that  can 
interfere,  and  I  don't  in  the  least  mind  your  knowing 
that  I  find  the  consequence  delightful.  You  may  talk, 
if  you  like,  of  what  will  have  passed  between  us,  but 
I  shall  never  mention  it  to  a  soul;  literally  not  to  a 
living  creature.  What  do  you  want  more  than  that  ?" 
He  opened  his  eyes  in  deference  to  the  question,  but 
replied  only  with  a  gaze  as  unassisted  as  if  it  had  come 
through  a  hole  in  a  curtain.  "You  say  you're  ready 
for  an  adventure,  and  it's  just  an  adventure  that  I 
propose.  If  I  can  make  you  feel  for  yourself  as  I  feel 
for  you  the  beauty  of  your  chance  to  go  in  and  save 
her  —  !" 

"Well,  if  you  can  —  ?"  Mitchy  at  last  broke  in. 
"I  don't  think,  you  know,"  he  said  after  a  moment, 
"you'll  find  it  easy  to  make  your  two  ends  meet." 

She  thought  a  little  longer.  "One  of  the  ends  is 
yours,  so  that  you  '11  act  with  me.  If  I  wind  you  up 
so  that  you  go  —  ! " 

"  You  '11  just  happily  sit  and  watch  me  spin  ?  Thank 
you !  That  will  be  my  reward  ? " 

Nanda  rose  on  this  from  her  chair  as  with  the  im 
pulse  of  protest.  "Shan't  you  care  for  my  gratitude, 
my  admiration  ? " 

354 


MITCHY 

"Oh  yes"  —  Mitchy  seemed  to  muse.  "I  shall 
care  for  them.  Yet  I  don't  quite  see,  you  know,  what 
you  owe  to  Aggie.  It  is  n't  as  if  —  ! "  But  with  this 
he  faltered. 

"As  if  she  cared  particularly  for  me?  Ah  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it;  that's  a  thing  without  which 
surely  it's  but  too  possible  to  be  exquisite.  There  are 
beautiful,  quite  beautiful  people  who  don't  care  for 
me.  The  thing  that's  important  to  one  is  the  thing 
one  sees  one's  self,  and  it's  quite  enough  if  I  see  what 
can  be  made  of  that  child.  Marry  her,  Mitchy,  and 
you'll  see  who  she'll  care  for!" 

Mitchy  kept  his  position;  he  was  for  the  moment 
—  his  image  of  shortly  before  reversed  —  the  one  who 
appeared  to  sit  happily  and  watch.  "It's  too  awfully 
pleasant  your  asking  of  me  anything  whatever! " 

"Well  then,  as  I  say,  beautifully,  grandly  save  her." 

"As  you  say,  yes"  —  he  sympathetically  inclined 
his  head.  "  But  without  making  me  feel  exactly  what 
you  mean  by  it." 

"  Keep  her,"  Nanda  returned,  "  from  becoming  like 
the  Duchess." 

"  But  she  is  n't  a  bit  like  the  Duchess  in  any  of  her 
elements.  She's  a  totally  different  thing." 

It  was  only  for  an  instant,  however,  that  this  objec 
tion  seemed  to  tell.  "That's  exactly  why  she'll  be  so 
perfect  for  you.  You'll  get  her  away  —  take  her  out 
of  her  aunt's  life." 

Mitchy  met  it  all  now  in  a  sort  of  spellbound  still 
ness.  "What  do  you  know  about  her  aunt's  life  ?" 

"Oh  I  know  everything!"  She  spoke  with  her  first 
faint  shade  of  impatience. 

355 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

It  produced  for  a  little  a  hush  between  them,  at  the 
end  of  which  her  companion  said  with  extraordinary 
gentleness  and  tenderness:  "Dear  old  Nanda!"  Her 
own  silence  appeared  consciously  to  continue,  and  the 
suggestion  of  it  might  have  been  that  for  intelligent 
ears  there  was  nothing  to  add  to  the  declaration  she 
had  just  made  and  which  Mitchy  sat  there  taking 
in  as  with  a  new  light.  What  he  drew  from  it  indeed 
he  presently  went  on  to  show.  "You're  too  awfully 
interesting.  Of  course  —  you  know  a  lot.  How 
should  n't  you  —  and  why  ?" 

"'Why'  ?  Oh  that's  another  affair!  But  you  don't 
imagine  what  I  know;  I'm  sure  it's  much  more  than 
you  've  a  notion  of.  That 's  the  kind  of  thing  now  one 
is  —  just  except  the  little  marvel  of  Aggie.  What  on 
earth,"  the  girl  pursued,  "do  you  take  us  for?" 

"Oh  it's  all  right!"  breathed  Mitchy,  divinely 
pacific. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  whether  it  is;  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  it  were  in  fact  all  wrong.  But  what  at  least 
is  certainly  right  is  for  one  not  to  pretend  anything 
else.  There  I  am  for  you  at  any  rate.  Now  the  beauty 
of  Aggie  is  that  she  knows  nothing  —  but  absolutely, 
utterly :  not  the  least  little  tittle  of  anything." 

It  was  barely  visible  that  Mitchy  hesitated,  and  he 
spoke  quite  gravely.  "  Have  you  tried  her  ? " 

"Oh  yes.  And  Tishy  has."  His  gravity  had  been 
less  than  Nanda's.  "Nothing,  nothing."  The  memory 
of  some  scene  or  some  passage  might  have  come  back 
to  her  with  a  charm.  "Ah  say  what  you  will  —  it  is 
the  way  we  ought  to  be ! " 

Mitchy,  after  a  minute  of  much  intensity,  had 
356 


MITCHY 

stopped  watching  her;  changing  his  posture  and  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  he  dropped  for  a  while  his 
face  into  his  hands.  Then  he  jerked  himself  to  his 
feet.  "There's  something  I  wish  awfully  I  could  say 
to  you.  But  I  can't." 

Nanda,  after  a  slow  headshake,  covered  him  with 
one  of  the  dimmest  of  her  smiles.  "You  need  n't  say 
it.  I  know  perfectly  which  it  is."  She  held  him  an 
instant,  after  which  she  went  on:  "It's  simply  that 
you  wish  me  fully  to  understand  thatjyow're  one  who, 
in  perfect  sincerity,  does  n't  mind  one  straw  how 
awful  —  !" 

"Yes,  how  awful  ?"  He  had  kindled,  as  he  paused, 
with  his  new  eagerness. 

"Well,  one's  knowledge  may  be.  It  does  n't  shock 
in  you  a  single  hereditary  prejudice." 

"  Oh  '  hereditary '  —  ! "  Mitchy  ecstatically  mur 
mured. 

"  You  even  rather  like  me  the  better  for  it ;  so  that 
one  of  the  reasons  why  you  could  n't  have  told  me 
—  though  not  of  course,  I  know,  the  only  one  —  is 
that  you  would  have  been  literally  almost  ashamed. 
Because,  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "it  is  strange." 

"My  lack  of  hereditary  —  ?" 

"Yes,  discomfort  in  presence  of  the  fact  I  speak  of. 
There's  a  kind  of  sense  you  don't  possess." 

His  appreciation  again  fairly  goggled  at  her.  "Oh 
you  do  know  everything!" 

"You're  so  good  that  nothing  shocks  you,"  she 
lucidly  persisted.  "There's  a  kind  of  delicacy  you 
have  n't  got." 

He  was  more  and  more  struck.   "  I  've  only  that  — 

357 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

as  it  were  —  of  the  skin  and  the  fingers  ? "  he  ap 
pealed. 

"Oh  and  that  of  the  mind.  And  that  of  the  soul. 
And  some  other  kinds  certainly.  But  not  the  kind." 

"Yes"  —  he  wondered  —  "I  suppose  that's  the 
only  way  one  can  name  it."  It  appeared  to  rise  there 
before  him.  "FA*  kind!" 

"The  kind  that  would  make  me  painful  to  you. 
Or  rather  not  me  perhaps,"  she  added  as  if  to  create 
between  them  the  fullest  possible  light;  "but  my 
situation,  my  exposure  —  all  the  results  of  them  I 
show.  Does  n't  one  become  a  sort  of  a  little  drain-pipe 
with  everything  flowing  through  ?" 

"Why  don't  you  call  it  more  gracefully,"  Mitchy 
asked,  freshly  struck,  "a  little  aeolian-harp  set  in  the 
drawing-room  window  and  vibrating  in  the  breeze  of 
conversation  ?" 

"Oh  because  the  harp  gives  out  a  sound,  and  we  — 
at  least  we  try  to  —  give  out  none." 

"What  you  take,  you  mean,  you  keep  ?" 

"Well,  it  sticks  to  us.  And  that's  what  you  don't 
mind!" 

Their  eyes  met  long  on  it.  "Yes  —  I  see.  I  don't 
mind.  I  've  the  most  extraordinary  lacunae." 

"Oh  I  don't  know  about  others,"  Nanda  replied; 
"I  have  n't  noticed  them.  But  you've  that  one,  and 
it's  enough." 

He  continued  to  face  her  with  his  queer  mixture  of 
assent  and  speculation.  "  Enough  for  what,  my  dear  ? 
To  have  made  me  impossible  for  you  because  the  only 
man  you  could,  as  they  say,  have  *  respected '  would  be 
a  man  who  would  have  minded  ?"  Then  as  under  the 

358 


MITCHY 

cool  soft  pressure  of  the  question  she  looked  at  last 
away  from  him:  "The  man  with  'the  kind,'  as  you 
call  it,  happens  to  be  just  the  type  you  can  love  ?  But 
what's  the  use,"  he  persisted  as  she  answered  no 
thing,  "in  loving  a  person  with  the  prejudice  — 
hereditary  or  other  —  to  which  you  're  precisely 
obnoxious  ?  Do  you  positively  like  to  love  in  vain  ? " 

It  was  a  question,  the  way  she  turned  back  to  him 
seemed  to  say,  that  deserved  a  responsible  answer. 
"Yes." 

But  she  had  moved  off  after  speaking,  and  Mitchy's 
eyes  followed  her  to  different  parts  of  the  room  as, 
with  small  pretexts  of  present  attention  to  it,  small 
bestowed  touches  for  symmetry,  she  slowly  measured 
it.  "What's  extraordinary  then  is  your  idea  of  my 
rinding  any  charm  in  Aggie's  ignorance." 

She  immediately  put  down  an  old  snuff-box.  "Why 
it 's  the  one  sort  of  thing  you  don't  know.  You  can't 
imagine,"  she  said  as  she  returned  to  him,  "the  effect 
it  will  produce  on  you.  You  must  get  really  near  it 
and  see  it  all  come  out  to  feel  all  its  beauty.  You'll 
like  it,  Mitchy  "  —  and  Nanda's  gravity  was  wonder 
ful  —  "better  than  anything  you  have  known." 

The  clear  sincerity  of  this,  even  had  there  been 
nothing  else,  imposed  a  consideration  that  Mitchy 
now  flagrantly  could  give,  and  the  deference  of  his 
suggestion  of  difficulty  only  grew  more  deep.  "I'm 
to  do  then,  with  this  happy  condition  of  hers,  what 
you  say  you  've  done  —  to  *  try '  it  ? "  And  then  as  her 
assent,  so  directly  challenged,  failed  an  instant:  " But 
won't  my  approach  to  it,  however  cautious,  be  just 
what  will  break  it  up  and  spoil  it?" 

359 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Nanda  thought.    "Why  so  —  if  mine  was  n't  ?" 

"Oh  you're  not  me!" 

"But  I'm  just  as  bad." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear!"  Mitchy  rang  out. 

"Without,"  Nanda  pursued,  "being  as  good." 
She  had  on  this,  in  a  different  key,  her  own  sudden 
explosion.  "  Don't  you  see,  Mitchy  dear  —  for  the 
very  heart  of  it  all  —  how  good  I  believe  you  ?" 

She  had  spoken  as  with  a  flare  of  impatience  at 
some  justice  he  failed  to  do  her,  and  this  brought  him 
after  a  startled  instant  close  enough  to  her  to  take  up 
her  hand.  She  let  him  have  it,  and  in  mute  solemn 
reassurance  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  saying  to  her  thus 
more  things  than  he  could  say  in  any  other  way; 
which  yet  just  after,  when  he  had  released  it  and  a 
motionless  pause  had  ensued,  did  n't  prevent  his 
adding  three  words.  "Oh  Nanda,  Nanda!" 

The  tone  of  them  made  her  again  extraordinarily 
gentle.  "Don't  'try'  anything  then.  Take  everything 
for  granted." 

He  had  turned  away  from  her  and  walked  mechan 
ically,  with  his  air  of  blind  emotion,  to  the  window, 
where  for  a  minute  he  looked  out.  "It  has  stopped 
raining,"  he  said  at  last;  "it's  going  to  brighten." 

The  place  had  three  windows,  and  Nanda  went  to 
the  next.  "Not  quite  yet  —  but  I  think  it  will." 

Mitchy  soon  faced  back  into  the  room,  where  after 
a  brief  hesitation  he  moved,  as  quietly,  almost  as  cau 
tiously,  as  if  on  tiptoe,  to  the  seat  occupied  by  his 
companion  at  the  beginning  of  their  talk.  Here  he 
sank  down  watching  the  girl,  who  stood  a  while  longer 
with  her  eyes  on  the  garden.  "You  want  me,  you  say, 

360 


MITCHY 

to  take  her  out  of  the  Duchess's  life;  but  where  am 
I  myself,  if  we  come  to  that,  but  even  more  in  the 
Duchess's  life  than  Aggie  is  ?  I  'm  in  it  by  my  con 
tacts,  my  associations,  my  indifferences  —  all  my 
acceptances,  knowledges,  amusements.  I  'm  in  it  by 
my  cynicisms  —  those  that  circumstances  somehow 
from  the  first,  when  I  began  for  myself  to  look  at  life 
and  the  world,  committed  me  to  and  steeped  me  in; 
I  'm  in  it  by  a  kind  of  desperation  that  I  should  n't 
have  felt  perhaps  if  you  had  got  hold  of  me  sooner 
with  just  this  touch  with  which  you  've  got  hold  of  me 
to-day;  and  I  'm  in  it  more  than  all  —  you  '11  yourself 
admit  —  by  the  very  fact  that  her  aunt  desires,  as 
you  know,  much  more  even  than  you  do,  to  bring 
the  thing  about.  Then  we  should  be  —  the  Duchess 
and  I  —  shoulder  to  shoulder!" 

Nanda  heard  him  motionless  to  the  end,  taking  also 
another  minute  to  turn  over  what  he  had  said.  "What 
is  it  you  like  so  in  Lord  Petherton  ?"  she  asked  as  she 
came  to  him. 

"  My  dear  child,  if  you  only  could  tell  me !  It  would 
be,  would  n't  it  ?  —  it  must  have  been  —  the  subject 
of  some  fairy-tale,  if  fairy-tales  were  made  now,  or 
better  still  of  some  Christmas  pantomime:  'The 
Gnome  and  the  Giant.' ' 

Nanda  appeared  to  try  —  not  with  much  success  — 
to  see  it.  "Do  you  find  Lord  Petherton  a  Gnome  ?" 

Mitchy  at  first,  for  all  reward,  only  glared  at  her. 
"Charming,  Nanda  —  charming!" 

"A  man's  giant  enough  for  Lord  Petherton,"  she 
went  on,  "when  his  fortune's  gigantic.  He  preys 
upon  you." 

361 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

His  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  much  apart, 
Mitchy  sat  there  as  in  a  posture  adapted  to  her  sim 
plicity.  "You're  adorable.  You  don't.  But  it  is 
rather  horrid,  is  n't  it  ? "  he  presently  went  on. 

Her  momentary  silence  would  have  been  by  itself 
enough  of  an  answer.  "Nothing  —  of  all  you  speak 
of,"  she  nevertheless  returned,  "will  matter  then. 
She'll  so  simplify  your  life."  He  remained  just  as  he 
was,  only  with  his  eyes  on  her;  and  meanwhile  she 
had  turned  again  to  her  window,  through  which  a 
faint  sun-streak  began  to  glimmer  and  play.  At  sight 
of  it  she  opened  the  casement  to  let  in  the  warm  fresh 
ness.  "The  rain  has  stopped." 

"You  say  you  want  me  to  save  her.  But  what  you 
really  mean,"  Mitchy  resumed  from  the  sofa,  "is  n't 
at  all  exactly  that." 

Nanda,  without  heeding  the  remark,  took  in  the 
sunshine.  "It  will  be  charming  now  in  the  garden." 

Her  friend  got  up,  found  his  wonderful  crossbarred 
cap,  after  a  glance,  on  a  neighbouring  chair,  and  with 
it  came  toward  her.  "Your  hope  is  that  —  as  I'm 
good  enough  to  be  worth  it  —  she'll  save  me." 

Nanda  looked  at  him  now.  "  She  will,  Mitchy  — 
she  will!" 

They  stood  a  moment  in  the  recovered  brightness ; 
after  which  he  mechanically  —  as  with  the  pressure  of 
quite  another  consciousness  —  put  on  his  cap.  "Well 
then,  shall  that  hope  between  us  be  the  thing  —  ?" 

"The  thing  ?"  —  she  just  wondered. 

"  Why  that  will  have  drawn  us  together  —  to  hold 
us  so,  you  know  —  this  afternoon.  I  mean  the  secret 
we  spoke  of." 

362 


MITCHY 

She  put  out  to  him  on  this  the  hand  he  had  taken 
a  few  minutes  before,  and  he  clasped  it  now  only 
with  the  firmness  it  seemed  to  give  and  to  ask  for. 
"Oh  it  will  do  for  that!"  she  said  as  they  went  out 
together. 


Ill 


IT  had  been  understood  he  was  to  take  his  leave  on 
the  morrow,  though  Vanderbank  was  to  stay  another 
day.  Mr.  Longdon  had  for  the  Sunday  dinner  in 
vited  three  or  four  of  his  neighbours  to  "  meet "  the 
two  gentlemen  from  town,  so  that  it  was  not  till  the 
company  had  departed,  or  in  other  words  till  near 
bedtime,  that  our  four  friends  could  again  have  be 
come  aware,  as  between  themselves,  of  that  directness 
of  mutual  relation  which  forms  the  subject  of  our 
picture.  It  had  not,  however,  prevented  Nanda's 
slipping  upstairs  as  soon  as  the  doctor  and  his  wife 
had  gone,  and  the  manner  indeed  in  which,  on  the 
stroke  of  eleven,  Mr.  Longdon  conformed  to  his  tra 
dition  of  appropriating  a  particular  candle  was  as 
positive  an  expression  of  it  as  any  other.  Nothing  in 
him  was  more  amiable  than  the  terms  maintained 
between  the  rigour  of  his  personal  habits  and  his  free 
imagination  of  the  habits  of  others.  He  deprecated 
as  regards  the  former,  it  might  have  been  seen,  most 
signs  of  likeness,  and  no  one  had  ever  dared  to  learn 
how  he  would  have  handled  a  show  of  imitation. 
"The  way  to  flatter  him,"  Mitchy  threw  off  five  min 
utes  later,  "is  not  to  make  him  think  you  resemble  or 
agree  with  him,  but  to  let  him  see  how  different  you 
perceive  he  can  bear  to  think  you.  I  mean  of  course 
without  hating  you." 

"  But  what  interest  have  you,"  Vanderbank  asked, 
"in  the  way  to  flatter  him  ?" 

364 


MITCHY 

"My  dear  fellow,  more  interest  than  you.  I  have  n't 
been  here  all  day  without  arriving  at  conclusions  on 
the  credit  he  has  opened  to  you  — ! " 

"Do  you  mean  the  amount  he'll  settle  ?" 

"You  have  it  in  your  power,"  said  Mitchy,  "to 
make  it  anything  you  like." 

"And  is  he  then  —  so  bloated  ?" 

Mitchy  was  on  his  feet  in  the  apartment  in  which 
their  host  had  left  them,  and  he  had  at  first  for  this 
question  but  an  expressive  motion  of  the  shoulders 
in  respect  to  everything  in  the  room.  "See,  judge, 
guess,  feel!" 

But  it  was  as  if  Vanderbank,  before  the  fire,  con 
sciously  controlled  his  own  attention.  "Oh  I  don't 
care  a  hang!" 

This  passage  took  place  in  the  library  and  as  a 
consequence  of  their  having  confessed,  as  their  friend 
faced  them  with  his  bedroom  light,  that  a  brief  dis 
creet  vigil  and  a  box  of  cigars  would  fix  better  than 
anything  else  the  fine  impression  of  the  day.  Mitchy 
might  at  that  moment,  on  the  evidence  of  the  eyes 
Mr.  Longdon  turned  to  them  and  of  which  his  in 
nocent  candle-flame  betrayed  the  secret,  have  found 
matter  for  a  measure  of  the  almost  extreme  allow 
ances  he  wanted  them  to  want  of  him.  They  had  only 
to  see  that  the  greater  window  was  fast  and  to  turn 
out  the  library  lamp.  It  might  really  have  amused 
them  to  stand  a  moment  at  the  open  door  that,  apart 
from  this,  was  to  testify  to  his  conception  of  those 
who  were  not,  in  the  smaller  hours,  as  he  was.  He 
had  in  fact  by  his  retreat  —  and  but  too  sensibly  — 
left  them  there  with  a  deal  of  midnight  company.  If 

365 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

one  of  these  presences  was  the  mystery  he  had  him 
self  mixed  the  manner  of  our  young  men  showed  a 
due  expectation  of  the  others.  Mitchy,  on  hearing 
how  little  Vanderbank  "cared,"  only  kept  up  a  while 
longer  that  observant  revolution  in  which  he  had 
spent  much  of  his  day,  to  which  any  fresh  sense  of 
any  exhibition  always  promptly  committed  him,  and 
which,  had  it  not  been  controlled  by  infinite  tact, 
might  have  affected  the  nerves  of  those  in  whom  en 
joyment  was  less  rotary.  He  was  silent  long  enough 
to  suggest  his  fearing  that  almost  anything  he  might 
say  would  appear  too  allusive;  then  at  last  once 
more  he  took  his  risk.  "Awfully  jolly  old  place!" 

"It  is  indeed,"  Van  only  said;  but  his  posture  in 
the  large  chair  he  had  pushed  toward  the  open  win 
dow  was  of  itself  almost  an  opinion.  The  August 
night  was  hot  and  the  air  that  came  in  charged  and 
sweet.  Vanderbank  smoked  with  his  face  to  the  dusky 
garden  and  the  dim  stars ;  at  the  end  of  a  few  mo 
ments  more  of  which  he  glanced  round.  "Don't  you 
think  it  rather  stuffy  with  that  big  lamp  ?  As  those 
candles  on  the  chimney  are  going  we  might  put  it 
out." 

"Like  this  ?"  The  amiable  Mitchy  had  straightway 
obliged  his  companion  and  he  as  promptly  took  in 
the  effect  of  the  diminished  light  on  the  character 
of  the  room,  which  he  commended  as  if  the  depth 
of  shadow  produced  were  all  this  companion  had 
sought.  He  might  freshly  have  brought  home  to  Van 
derbank  that  a  man  sensitive  to  so  many  different 
things,  and  thereby  always  sure  of  something  or  other, 
could  never  really  be  incommoded;  though  that 

366 


MITCHY 

personage  presently  indeed  showed  himself  occupied 
with  another  thought. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  mention  to  you  that  I  've  told 
him  how  you  and  Mrs.  Brook  now  both  know.  I  did 
so  this  afternoon  on  our  way  back  from  church  — 
I  had  n't  done  it  before.  He  took  me  a  walk  round 
to  show  me  more  of  the  place,  and  that  gave  me  my 
chance.  But  he  does  n't  mind,"  Vanderbank  con 
tinued.  "The  only  thing  is  that  I've  thought  it  may 
possibly  make  him  speak  to  you,  so  that  it's  better 
you  should  know  he  knows.  But  he  told  me  definitely 
Nanda  does  n't." 

Mitchy  took  this  in  with  an  attention  that  spoke 
of  his  already  recognising  how  the  less  tempered 
darkness  favoured  talk.  "And  is  that  all  that  passed 
between  you  ? " 

"Well,  practically;  except  of  course  that  I  made 
him  understand,  I  think,  how  it  happened  that  I 
have  n't  kept  my  own  counsel." 

"Oh  but  you  have  —  did  n't  he  at  least  feel  ?  —  or 
perhaps  even  have  done  better,  when  you've  two 
such  excellent  persons  to  keep  it  for  you.  Can't  he 
easily  believe  how  we  feel  with  you  ?" 

Vanderbank  appeared  for  a  minute  to  leave  this 
appeal  unheeded ;  he  continued  to  stare  into  the  gar 
den  while  he  smoked  and  swung  the  long  leg  he  had 
thrown  over  the  arm  of  the  chair.  When  he  at  last 
spoke,  however,  it  was  with  some  emphasis  —  per 
haps  even  with  some  vulgarity.  "Oh  rot!" 

Mitchy  hovered  without  an  arrest.  "You  mean 
he  Wf  feel?" 

"I  mean  it  is  n't  true.   I've  no  illusions  about  you. 

367 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

I  know  how  you  're  both  affected,  though  I  of  course 
perfectly  trust  you." 

Mitchy  had  a  short  silence.  "Trust  us  not  to 
speak  ? " 

"Not  to  speak  to  Nanda  herself —  though  of  course 
too  if  you  spoke  to  others,"  Vanderbank  went  on, 
"they'd  immediately  rush  and  tell  her." 

"I've  spoken  to  no  one,"  said  Mitchy. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.    And  neither  has  Mrs.  Brook." 

"I'm  glad  you're  sure  of  that  also,"  Mitchy  re 
turned,  "for  it's  only  doing  her  justice." 

"Oh  I'm  quite  confident  of  it,"  said  Vanderbank. 

"And  without  asking  her?" 

"Perfectly." 

"And  you're  equally  sure,  without  asking,  that  / 
have  n't  betrayed  you  ? "  After  which,  while,  as  if 
to  let  the  question  lie  there  in  its  folly,  Vanderbank 
said  nothing,  his  friend  pursued:  "I  came,  I  must 
tell  you,  terribly  near  it  to-day." 

"Why  must  you  tell  me?  Your  coming  'near' 
does  n't  concern  me,  and  I  take  it  you  don't  suppose 
I  'm  watching  or  sounding  you.  Mrs.  Brook  will  have 
come  terribly  near,"  Vanderbank  continued  as  if  to 
make  the  matter  free;  "but  she  won't  have  done  it 
either.  She  '11  have  been  distinctly  tempted  — ! " 

"  But  she  won't  have  fallen  ? "  Mitchy  broke  in. 
"  Exactly  —  there  we  are.  /  was  distinctly  tempted 
and  I  did  n't  fall.  I  think  your  certainty  about  Mrs. 
Brook,"  he  added,  "shows  you  do  know  her.  She's 
incapable  of  anything  deliberately  nasty." 

"Oh  of  anything  nasty  in  any  way,"  Vanderbank 
said  musingly  and  kindly. 

368 


MITCHY 

"Yes;  one  knows  on  the  whole  what  she  won't 
do."  After  which,  for  a  period,  Mitchy  roamed  and 
reflected.  "  But  in  spite  of  the  assurance  given  you 
by  Mr.  Longdon  —  or  perhaps  indeed  just  because 
of  your  having  taken  it  —  I  think  I  ought  to  mention 
to  you  my  belief  that  Nanda  does  know  of  his  offer 
to  you.  I  mean  by  having  guessed  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Vanderbank. 

"There's  in  fact  more  still,"  his  companion  pur 
sued  —  "that  I  feel  I  should  like  to  mention  to  you." 

"Oh!"  Vanderbank  at  first  only  repeated.  But 
after  a  moment  he  said :  "  My  dear  fellow,  I  'm  much 
obliged." 

"The  thing  I  speak  of  is  something  I  should  at  any 
rate  have  said,  and  I  should  have  looked  out  for  some 
chance  if  we  had  not  had  this  one."  Mitchy  spoke 
as  if  his  friend's  last  words  were  not  of  consequence, 
and  he  continued  as  Vanderbank  got  up  and,  moving 
rather  aimlessly,  came  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
chimney.  "My  only  hesitation  would  have  been 
caused  by  its  entailing  our  going  down  into  things  in 
a  way  that,  face  to  face  —  given  the  private  nature  of 
the  things  —  I  dare  say  most  men  don't  particularly 
enjoy.  But  if  you  don't  mind — !" 

"Oh  I  don't  mind.  In  fact,  as  I  tell  you,  I  recognise 
an  obligation  to  you."  Vanderbank,  with  his  shoul 
ders  against  the  high  mantel,  uttered  this  without 
a  direct  look;  he  smoked  and  smoked,  then  consid 
ered  the  tip  of  his  cigar.  "You  feel  convinced  she 
knows  ?"  he  threw  out. 

"Well,  it's  my  impression." 

"Ah  any  impression  of  yours  —  of  that  sort  —  is 
369 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

sure  to  be  right.  If  you  think  I  ought  to  have  it  from 
you  I  'm  really  grateful.  Is  that  —  a  —  what  you 
wanted  to  say  to  me  ? "  Vanderbank  after  a  slight  pause 
demanded. 

Mitchy,  watching  him  more  than  he  watched 
Mitchy,  shook  a  mildly  decisive  head.  "No." 

Vanderbank,  his  eyes  on  his  smoke-puffs,  seemed  to 
wonder.  "  What  you  wanted  is  —  something  else  ? " 

"Something  else." 

"Oh!"  said  Vanderbank  for  the  third  time. 

The  ejaculation  had  been  vague,  but  the  move 
ment  that  followed  it  was  definite;  the  young  man, 
turning  away,  found  himself  again  near  the  chair  he 
had  quitted,  and  resumed  possession  of  it  as  a  sign 
of  being  at  his  friend's  service.  This  friend,  however, 
not  only  hung  fire  but  finally  went  back  to  take  a  shot 
from  a  quarter  they  might  have  been  supposed  to 
have  left.  "It  strikes  me  as  odd  his  imagining  — 
awfully  acute  as  he  is  —  that  she  has  not  guessed. 
One  would  n't  have  thought  he  could  live  with  her 
here  in  such  an  intimacy  —  seeing  her  every  day 
and  pretty  much  all  day  —  and  make  such  a  mis 
take." 

Vanderbank,  his  great  length  all  of  a  lounge  again, 
turned  it  over.  "And  yet  I  do  thoroughly  feel  the 
mistake 's  not  yours." 

Mitchy  had  a  new  serenity  of  affirmation.  "Oh 
it's  not  mine." 

"Perhaps  then"  —  it  occurred  to  his  friend  —  "he 
does  n't  really  believe  it." 

"And  only  says  so  to  make  you  feel  more  easy?" 

"So  that  one  may  —  in  fairness  to  one's  self  — 

370 


MITCHY 

keep  one's  head,  as  it  were,  and  decide  quite  on  one's 
own  grounds." 

"Then  you  have  still  to  decide?" 

Vanderbank  took  time  to  answer.  "I've  still  to 
decide."  Mitchy  became  again  on  this,  in  the  sociable 
dusk,  a  slow-circling  vaguely-agitated  element,  and 
his  companion  continued:  "Is  your  idea  very  gen 
erously  and  handsomely  to  help  that  by  letting  me 
know  —  ?" 

"  That  I  do  definitely  renounce "  —  Mitchy  took 
him  up  —  "any  pretension  and  any  hope?  Well, 
I  'm  ready  with  a  proof  of  it.  I  Ve  passed  my  word 
that  I'll  apply  elsewhere." 

Vanderbank  turned  more  round  to  him.  "Apply  to 
the  Duchess  for  her  niece  ?" 

"It's  practically  settled." 

"  But  since  when  ? " 

Mitchy  barely  faltered.    "Since  this  afternoon." 

"Ah  then  not  with  the  Duchess  herself." 

"With  Nanda  —  whose  plan  from  the  first,  you 
won't  have  forgotten,  the  thing  has  so  charmingly 
been." 

Vanderbank  could  show  that  his  not  having  in  the 
least  forgotten  was  yet  not  a  bar  to  his  being  now 
mystified.  "But,  my  dear  man,  what  can  Nanda 
'settle'?" 

"  My  fate,"  Mitchy  said,  pausing  well  before  him. 

Vanderbank  sat  now  a  minute  with  raised  eyes, 
catching  the  indistinctness  of  the  other's  strange 
expression.  "You're  both  beyond  me!"  he  ex 
claimed  at  last.  "  I  don't  see  what  you  in  particular 
gain." 

371 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  did  n't  either  till  she  made  it  all  out  to  me.  One 
sees  then,  in  such  a  matter,  for  one's  self.  And  as 
everything's  gain  that  is  n't  loss,  there  was  nothing 
I  could  lose.  It  gets  me,"  Mitchy  further  explained, 
"out  of  the  way." 

"  Out  of  the  way  of  what  ? " 

This,  Mitchy  frankly  showed,  was  more  difficult 
to  say,  but  he  in  time  brought  it  out.  "  Well,  of  ap 
pearing  to  suggest  to  you  that  my  existence,  in  a  pro 
longed  state  of  singleness,  may  ever  represent  for  her 
any  real  alternative." 

"  But  alternative  to  what  ? " 

"Why  to  being  your  wife,  damn  you ! "  Mitchy,  on 
these  words  turned  away  again,  and  his  companion, 
in  the  presence  of  his  renewed  dim  gyrations,  sat 
for  a  minute  dumb.  Before  Van  had  spoken  indeed 
he  was  back  again.  "Excuse  my  violence,  but  of 
course  you  really  see." 

"I'm  not  pretending  anything,"  Vanderbank  said 
—  "but  a  man  must  understand.  What  I  catch  hold 
of  is  that  you  offer  me  —  in  the  fact  that  you  're  thus 
at  any  rate  disposed  of —  a  proof  that  I,  by  the  same 
token,  shan't,  if  I  hesitate  to  '  go  in,'  have  a  pretext 
for  saying  to  myself  that  I  may  deprive  her  — !" 

"Yes,  precisely,"  Mitchy  now  urbanely  assented: 
"of  something  —  in  the  shape  of  a  man  with  my 
amount  of  money  —  that  she  may  live  to  regret  and 
to  languish  for.  My  amount  of  money,  don't  you 
see  ?"  he  very  simply  added,  "is  nothing  to  her." 

"And  you  want  me  to  be  sure  that  —  so  far  as  I 
may  ever  have  had  a  scruple  —  she  has  had  her 
chance  and  got  rid  of  it." 

372 


MITCHY 

"Completely,"  Mitchy  smiled. 

"Because" — Vanderbank  with  the  aid  of  his  cigar 
thoughtfully  pieced  it  out  —  "that  may  possibly  bring 
me  to  the  point." 

"Possibly!"  Mitchy  laughed. 

He  had  stood  a  moment  longer,  almost  as  if  to  see 
the  possibility  develop  before  his  eyes,  and  had  even 
started  at  the  next  sound  of  his  friend's  voice.  What 
Vanderbank  in  fact  brought  out,  however,  only  made 
him  turn  his  back.  "Do  you  like  so  very  much  little 
Aggie?" 

"Well,"  said  Mitchy,  "Nanda  does.  And  I  like 
Nanda." 

"You're  too  amazing,"  Vanderbank  mused.  His 
musing  had  presently  the  effect  of  making  him  rise; 
meditation  indeed  beset  him  after  he  was  on  his  feet. 
"I  can't  help  its  coming  over  me  then  that  on  such 
an  extraordinary  system  you  must  also  rather  like 
me." 

"What  will  you  have,  my  dear  Van?"  Mitchy 
frankly  asked.  "It's  the  sort  of  thing  you  must  be 
most  used  to.  For  at  the  present  moment —  look!  — 
are  n't  we  all  at  you  at  once  ? " 

It  was  as  if  his  dear  Van  had  managed  to  appear  to 
wonder.  "'All'?" 

"Nanda,  Mrs.  Brook,  Mr.  Longdon  — !" 

"And  you.    I  see." 

"Names  of  distinction.  And  all  the  others," 
Mitchy  pursued,  "that  I  don't  count." 

"Oh  you're  the  best." 

"I?" 

"You're  the  best,"  Vanderbank  simply  repeated. 

373 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"It's  at  all  events  most  extraordinary,"  he  declared. 
"  But  I  make  you  out  on  the  whole  better  than  I  do 
Mr.  Longdon." 

"Ah  aren't  we  very  much  the  same  —  simple 
lovers  of  life  ?  That  is  of  that  finer  essence  of  it  which 
appeals  to  the  consciousness — !" 

"The  consciousness?"  —  his  companion  took  up 
his  hesitation. 

"Well,  enlarged  and  improved." 

The  words  had  made  on  Mitchy's  lips  an  image  by 
which  his  friend  appeared  for  a  moment  held.  "One 
does  n't  really  know  quite  what  to  say  or  to  do." 

"Oh  you  must  take  it  all  quietly.  You  're  of  a  spe 
cial  class;  one  of  those  who,  as  we  said  the  other  day 
—  don't  you  remember  ?  —  are  a  source  of  the  sacred 
terror.  People  made  in  such  a  way  must  take  the  con 
sequences;  just  as  people  must  take  them,"  Mitchy 
went  on,  "who  are  made  as  /  am.  So  cheer  up!" 

Mitchy,  uttering  this  incitement,  had  moved  to  the 
empty  chair  by  the  window,  in  which  he  presently 
was  sunk;  and  it  might  have  been  in  emulation  of  his 
previous  strolling  and  straying  that  Vanderbank  him 
self  now  began  to  revolve.  The  meditation  he  next 
threw  out,  however,  showed  a  certain  resistance  to 
Mitchy's  advice.  "I'm  glad  at  any  rate  I  don't  de 
prive  her  of  a  fortune." 

"You  don't  deprive  her  of  mine  of  course,"  Mitchy 
answered  from  the  chair;  "but  is  n't  her  enjoyment 
of  Mr.  Longdon's  at  least  a  good  deal  staked  after  all 
on  your  action  ? " 

Vanderbank  stopped  short.  "It's  his  idea  to  settle 
it  tdl?" 

374 


MITCHY 

Mitchy  gave  out  his  glare.  "  I  thought  you  did  n't 
'care  a  hang.'  I  have  n't  been  here  so  long,"  he  went 
on  as  his  companion  at  first  retorted  nothing,  "with 
out  making  up  my  mind  for  myself  about  his  means. 
He  is  distinctly  bloated." 

It  sent  Vanderbank  off  again.  "Oh  well,  she'll  no 
more  get  all  in  the  one  event  than  she  '11  get  nothing 
in  the  other.  She  '11  only  get  a  sort  of  provision.  But 
she'll  get  that  whatever  happens." 

"  Oh  if  you  're  sure  —  ! "  Mitchy  simply  com 
mented. 

"  I  'm  not  sure,  confound  it ! "  Then  —  for  his  voice 
had  been  irritated  —  Van  spoke  more  quietly.  "  Only 
I  see  her  here  —  though  on  his  wish  of  course  — 
handling  things  quite  as  if  they  were  her  own  and 
paying  him  a  visit  without,  apparently,  any  calculable 
end.  What's  that  on  his  part  but  a  pledge  ?" 

Oh  Mitchy  could  show  off-hand  that  he  knew  what 
it  was.  "It's  a  pledge,  quite  as  much,  to  you.  He 
shows  you  the  whole  thing.  He  likes  you  not  a  whit 
less  than  he  likes  her." 

"Oh  thunder!"  Van  impatiently  sighed. 

"It's  as  'rum'  as  you  please,  but  there  it  is,"  said 
the  inexorable  Mitchy. 

"Then  does  he  think  I'll  do  it  for  this?" 

"For 'this'?" 

"  For  the  place,  the  whole  thing,  as  you  call  it,  that 
he  shows  me." 

Mitchy  had  a  short  silence  that  might  have  repre 
sented  a  change  of  colour.  "It  is  n't  good  enough  ?" 
But  he  instantly  took  himself  up.  "Of  course  he 
wants  —  as  I  do  —  to  treat  you  with  tact ! " 

375 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh  it's  all  right,"  Vanderbank  immediately  said. 
"Your  'tact' — yours  and  his  —  is  marvellous,  and 
Nanda's  greatest  of  all." 

Mitchy's  momentary  renewal  of  stillness  was  ad 
dressed,  he  somehow  managed  not  obscurely  to  con 
vey,  to  the  last  clause  of  his  friend's  speech.  "If 
you're  not  sure,"  he  presently  resumed,  "why  can't 
you  frankly  ask  him  ? " 

Vanderbank  again,  as  the  phrase  is,  "mooned" 
about  a  little.  "  Because  I  don't  know  that  it  would 
do." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'do'  ?" 

"Well,  that  it  would  be  exactly  —  what  do  you 
call  it  ?  —  'square.'  Or  even  quite  delicate  or  decent. 
To  take  from  him,  in  the  way  of  an  assurance  so 
handsomely  offered,  so  much,  and  then  to  ask  for 
more:  I  don't  feel  I  can  do  it.  Besides,  I've  my  little 
conviction.  To  the  question  itself  he  might  easily 
reply  that  it's  none  of  my  business." 

"I  see,"  Mitchy  dropped.  "Such  pressure  might 
suggest  to  him  moreover  that  you  're  hesitating  more 
than  you  perhaps  really  are." 

"Oh  as  to  that,"  said  Vanderbank,  "I  think  he 
practically  knows  how  much." 

"And  how  little  ?"  He  met  this,  however,  with  no 
more  form  than  if  it  had  been  a  poor  joke,  so  that 
Mitchy  also  smoked  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "It's 
your  coming  down  here,  you  mean,  for  these  three 
or  four  days,  that  will  have  fixed  it  ? " 

The  question  this  time  was  one  to  which  the  speaker 
might  have  expected  an  answer,  but  Vanderbank's 
only  immediate  answer  was  to  walk  and  walk.  "I 

376 


MITCHY 

want  so  awfully  to  be  kind  to  her,"  he  at  last 
said. 

"I  should  think  so! "  Then  with  irrelevance  Mitchy 
harked  back.  "Shall  /  find  out?" 

But  Vanderbank,  with  another  thought,  had  lost 
the  thread.  "Find  out  what?" 

"Why  if  she  does  get  anything  —  !" 

"If  I'm  not  kind  enough?" — Van  had  caught  up 
again.  "Dear  no;  I'd  rather  you  should  n't  speak 
unless  first  spoken  to." 

"Well,  he  may  speak  —  since  he  knows  we  know." 

"  It  is  n't  likely,  for  he  can't  make  out  why  I  told 
you." 

"You  did  n't  tell  me,  you  know,"  said  Mitchy. 
"You  told  Mrs.  Brook." 

"Well,  she  told  you,  and  her  talking  about  it  is  the 
unpleasant  idea.  He  can't  get  her  down  anyhow." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Brook ! "  Mitchy  meditated. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Brook!"  his  companion  echoed. 

"But  I  thought  you  said,"  he  went  on,  "that  he 
does  n't  mind." 

"  Tour  knowing  ?  Well,  I  dare  say  he  does  n't. 
But  he  does  n't  want  a  lot  of  gossip  and  chatter." 

"Oh!"  said  Mitchy  with  meekness. 

"  I  may  absolutely  take  it  from  you  then,"  Vander 
bank  presently  resumed,  "that  Nanda  has  her  idea  ?" 

"Oh  she  did  n't  tell  me  so.  But  it's  none  the  less 
my  belief." 

"Well,"  Vanderbank  at  last  threw  off,  "I  feel  it  for 
myself.  If  only  because  she  always  knows  every 
thing,"  he  pursued  without  looking  at  Mitchy.  "She 
always  knows  everything,  everything." 

377 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Everything,  everything."  Mitchy  got  up. 

"She  told  me  so  herself  yesterday,"  said  Van. 

"And  she  told  me  so  to-day." 

Vanderbank's  hesitation  might  have  shown  he  was 
struck  with  this.  "Well,  I  don't  think  it's  informa 
tion  that  either  of  us  required.  But  of  course  she 
can't  help  it,"  he  added.  "Everything,  literally 
everything,  in  London,  in  the  world  she  lives  in,  is 
in  the  air  she  breathes  —  so  that  the  longer  she's  in 
it  the  more  she'll  know." 

"The  more  she  '11  know,  certainly,"  Mitchy  acknow 
ledged.  "  But  she  is  n't  in  it,  you  see,  down  here." 

"No.  Only  she  appears  to  have  come  down  with 
such  accumulations.  And  she  won't  be  here  for  ever," 
Vanderbank  hastened  to  mention. 

"Certainly  not  if  you  marry  her." 

"  But  is  n't  that  at  the  same  time,"  Vanderbank 
asked,  "just  the  difficulty?" 

Mitchy  looked  vague.    "The  difficulty?" 

"Why  as  a  married  woman  she'll  be  steeped  in  it 
again." 

"  Surely  "  — oh  Mitchy  could  be  candid !  "  But  the 
difference  will  be  that  for  a  married  woman  it  won't 
matter.  It  only  matters  for  girls,"  he  plausibly  con 
tinued  —  "  and  then  only  for  those  on  whom  no  one 
takes  pity." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Vanderbank  —  but  quite 
as  if  uttering  only  a  general  truth  —  "  that  it 's  just 
a  thing  that  may  sometimes  operate  as  a  bar  to  pity. 
Is  n't  it  for  the  non-marrying  girls  that  it  does  n't 
particularly  matter?  For  the  others  it's  such  an 
odd  preparation." 

378 


MITCHY 

"Oh  I  don't  mind  it!"  Mitchy  declared. 

Vanderbank  visibly  demurred.  "Ah  but  your 
choice  — ! " 

"Is  such  a  different  sort  of  thing  ?"  Mitchy,  for  the 
half-hour,  in  the  ambiguous  dusk,  had  never  looked 
more  droll.  "The  young  lady  I  named  is  n't  my 
choice" 

"Well  then,  that's  only  a  sign  the  more  that  you 
do  these  things  more  easily." 

"Oh  *  easily'!"  Mitchy  murmured. 

"We  oughtn't  at  any  rate  to  keep  it  up,"  said 
Vanderbank,  who  had  looked  at  his  watch.  "Twelve 
twenty-five  —  good-night.  Shall  I  blow  out  the 
candles  ? " 

"  Do,  please.  I  '11  close  the  window  "  —  and  Mitchy 
went  to  it.  "  I  '11  follow  you  —  good-night."  The 
candles  after  a  minute  were  out  and  his  friend  had 
gone,  but  Mitchy,  left  in  darkness  face  to  face  with 
the  vague  quiet  garden,  still  stood  there. 


BOOK   EIGHTH 
TISHY   GRENDON 


THE  footman,  opening  the  door,  mumbled  his  name 
without  sincerity,  and  Vanderbank,  passing  in,  found 
in  fact  —  for  he  had  caught  the  symptom  —  the  chairs 
and  tables,  the  lighted  lamps  and  the  flowers  alone 
in  possession.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  which  exactly 
marked  eight,  then  turned  to  speak  again  to  the  serv 
ant,  who  had,  however,  without  another  sound  and 
as  if  blushing  for  the  house,  already  closed  him  in. 
There  was  nothing  indeed  but  Mrs.  Grendon's  want 
of  promptness  that  failed  of  a  welcome:  her  drawing- 
room,  on  the  January  night,  showed  its  elegance 
through  a  suffusion  of  pink  electricity  which  melted, 
at  the  end  of  the  vista,  into  the  faintly  golden  glow  of 
a  retreat  still  more  sacred.  Vanderbank  walked  after 
a  moment  into  the  second  room,  which  also  proved 
empty  and  which  had  its  little  globes  of  white  fire  — 
discreetly  limited  in  number  —  coated  with  lemon- 
coloured  silk.  The  walls,  covered  with  delicate  French 
mouldings,  were  so  fair  that  they  seemed  vaguely 
silvered;  the  low  French  chimney  had  a  French  fire. 
There  was  a  lemon-coloured  stuff  on  the  sofa  and 
chairs,  a  wonderful  polish  on  the  floor  that  was  largely 
exposed,  and  a  copy  of  a  French  novel  in  blue  paper 
on  one  of  the  spindle-legged  tables.  Vanderbank 
looked  about  him  an  instant  as  if  generally  struck, 
then  gave  himself  to  something  that  had  particularly 
caught  his  eye.  This  was  simply  his  own  name  writ- 

383 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

ten  rather  large  on  the  cover  of  the  French  book  and 
endowed,  after  he  had  taken  the  volume  up,  with  the 
power  to  hold  his  attention  the  more  closely  the  longer 
he  looked  at  it.  He  uttered,  for  a  private  satisfaction, 
before  letting  the  matter  pass,  a  low  confused  sound; 
after  which,  flinging  the  book  down  with  some  em 
phasis  in  another  place,  he  moved  to  the  chimney- 
piece,  where  his  eyes  for  a  little  intently  fixed  the  small 
ashy  wood-fire.  When  he  raised  them  again  it  was, 
on  the  observation  that  the  beautiful  clock  on  the 
mantel  was  wrong,  to  consult  once  more  his  watch 
and  then  give  a  glance,  in  the  chimney-glass,  at  the 
state  of  his  moustache,  the  ends  of  which  he  twisted 
for  a  moment  with  due  care.  While  so  engaged  he 
became  aware  of  something  else  and,  quickly  facing 
about,  recognised  in  the  doorway  of  the  room  the 
other  figure  the  glass  had  just  reflected. 

"Oh  you?"  he  said  with  a  quick  handshake. 
"  Mrs.  Grendon  's  down  ? "  But  he  had  already  passed 
with  Nanda,  on  their  greeting,  back  into  the  first 
room,  which  contained  only  themselves,  and  she  had 
mentioned  that  she  believed  Tishy  to  have  said  8.15, 
which  meant  of  course  anything  people  liked. 

"Oh  then  there'll  be  nobody  till  nine.  I  didn't, 
I  suppose,  sufficiently  study  my  note ;  which  did  n't 
mention  to  me,  by  the  way,"  Vanderbank  added, 
"that  you  were  to  be  here." 

"Ah  but  why  should  it  ? "  Nanda  spoke  again,  how 
ever,  before  he  could  reply.  "  I  dare  say  that  when  she 
wrote  to  you  she  did  n't  know." 

"Know  you'd  come  bang  up  to  meet  me  ?"  Van 
derbank  laughed.  "Jolly  at  any  rate,  thanks  to  my 

384 


TISHY  GRENDON 

mistake,  to  have  in  this  way  a  quiet  moment  with  you. 
You  came  on  ahead  of  your  mother?'* 

"Oh  no  —  I 'm  staying  here." 

"Oh!"  said  Vanderbank. 

"  Mr.  Longdon  came  up  with  me  —  I  came  here, 
Friday  last,  straight." 

"You  parted  at  the  door  ?"  he  asked  with  marked 
gaiety. 

She  thought  a  moment  —  she  was  more  serious. 
"Yes  —  but  only  for  a  day  or  two.  He's  coming  to 
night." 

"Good.    How  delightful!" 

"  He  '11  be  glad  to  see  you,"  Nanda  said,  looking  at 
the  flowers. 

"  Awfully  kind  of  him  when  I  've  been  such  a  brute." 

"How  — a  brute?" 

"Well,  I  mean  not  writing  —  nor  going  back." 

"Oh  I  see,"  Nanda  simply  returned. 

It  was  a  simplicity  that,  clearly  enough,  made  her 
friend  a  little  awkward.  "Has  he  —  a  —  minded? 
But  he  can't  have  complained ! "  he  quickly  added. 

"Oh  he  never  complains." 

"No,  no  —  it  is  n't  in  him.  But  it's  just  that,"  said 
Vanderbank,  "  that  makes  one  feel  so  base.  I  've  been 
ferociously  busy." 

"He  knows  that  —  he  likes  it,"  Nanda  returned. 
"  He  delights  in  your  work.  And  I  've  done  what  I  can 
for  him." 

"Ah,"  said  her  companion,  "you've  evidently 
brought  him  round.  I  mean  to  this  lady." 

"To  Tishy  ?  Oh  of  course  I  can't  leave  her — with 
nobody." 

385 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"No"  —  Vanderbank  became  jocose  again  — 
"that's  a  London  necessity.  You  can't  leave  anybody 
with  nobody  —  exposed  to  everybody." 

Mild  as  it  was,  however,  Nanda  missed  the  pleas 
antry.  "Mr.  Grendon's  not  here." 

"Where  is  he  then?" 

"Yachting  —  but  she  does  n't  know." 

"Then  she  and  you  are  just  doing  this  together?" 

"Well,"  said  Nanda,  "she's  dreadfully  frightened." 

"Oh  she  must  n't  allow  herself,"  he  returned,  "to 
be  too  much  carried  away  by  it.  But  we're  to  have 
your  mother  ? " 

"Yes,  and  papa.  It's  really  for  Mitchy  and  Aggie," 
the  girl  went  on  —  "before  they  go  abroad." 

"Ah  then  I  see  what  you've  come  up  for!  Tishy 
and  I  are  n't  in  it.  It's  all  for  Mitchy." 

"  If  you  mean  there 's  nothing  I  would  n't  do  for 
him  you  're  quite  right.  He  has  always  been  of  a  kind 
ness  to  me  —  ! " 

"That  culminated  in  marrying  your  friend  ?"  Van 
derbank  asked.  "It  was  charming  certainly,  and 
I  don't  mean  to  diminish  the  merit  of  it.  But  Aggie 
herself,  I  gather,  is  of  a  charm  now — !" 

"Is  n't  she  ?"  — Nanda  was  eager.  "Has  n't  she 
come  out  ?" 

"With  a  bound  —  into  the  arena.  But  when  a 
young  person 's  out  with  Mitchy  —  ! " 

"Oh  you  must  n't  say  anything  against  that.  I  Ve 
been  out  with  him  myself." 

"Ah  but  my  dear  child  — !"  Van  frankly  ar 
gued. 

It  was  not,  however,  a  thing  to  notice.  "  I  knew  it 
386 


TISHY  GRENDON 

would  be  just  so.  It  always  is  when  they've  been  like 
that." 

"Do  you  mean  as  she  apparently  was?  But 
does  n't  it  make  one  wonder  a  little  if  she  was  ?" 

"Oh  she  was  —  I  know  she  was.  And  we're  also 
to  have  Harold,"  Nanda  continued  —  "another  of 
Mitchy's  beneficiaries.  It  would  be  a  banquet, 
would  n't  it  ?  if  we  were  to  have  them  all." 

Vanderbank  hesitated,  and  the  look  he  fixed  on  the 
door  might  have  suggested  a  certain  open  attention 
to  the  arrival  of  their  hostess  or  the  announcement  of 
other  guests.  "If  you  have  n't  got  them  all,  the  bene 
ficiaries,  you  've  got,  in  having  me,  I  should  suppose, 
about  the  biggest." 

"Ah  what  has  he  done  for  you  ?"  Nanda  asked. 

Again  her  friend  hung  fire.  "Do  you  remember 
something  you  said  to  me  down  there  in  August  ?" 

She  looked  vague  but  quite  unembarrassed.  "I  re 
member  but  too  well  that  I  chattered." 

"You  declared  to  me  that  you  knew  everything." 

"Oh  yes  —  and  I  said  so  to  Mitchy  too." 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  you  don't." 

"  Because  I  don't  know  —  ? " 

"Yes,  what  makes  me  the  victim  of  his  insatiable 
benevolence." 

"  Ah  well,  if  you  've  no  doubt  of  it  yourself  that 's  all 
that's  required.  I  'm  quite  glad  to  hear  of  something 
I  don't  know,"  Nanda  pursued.  "And  we're  to  have 
Harold  too,"  she  repeated. 

"As  a  beneficiary  ?  Then  we  shall  fill  up !  Harold 
will  give  us  a  stamp." 

"Won't  he?  I  hear  of  nothing  but  his  success. 
387 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mother  wrote  me  that  people  are  frantic  for  him; 
and,"  said  the  girl  after  an  instant,  "do  you  know 
what  Cousin  Jane  wrote  me  ? " 

"What  would  she  now  ?  I  'm  trying  to  think." 

Nanda  relieved  him  of  this  effort.  "Why  that 
mother  has  transferred  to  him  all  the  scruples  she 
felt  —  'even  to  excess*  — in  my  time,  about  what  we 
might  pick  up  among  you  all  that  would  n't  be  good 
for  us." 

"That's  a  neat  one  for  me!"  Vanderbank  de 
clared.  "And  I  like  your  talk  about  your  ante 
diluvian  'time." 

"Oh  it's  all  over." 

"What  exactly  is  it,"  Vanderbank  presently  de 
manded,  "that  you  describe  in  that  manner  ?" 

"Well,  my  little  hour.  And  the  danger  of  picking 
up." 

"There's  none  of  it  here  ?" 

Nanda  appeared  frankly  to  judge.  "No  —  be 
cause,  really,  Tishy,  don't  you  see  ?  is  natural.  We 
just  talk." 

Vanderbank  showed  his  interest.  "Whereas  at  your 
mother's  —  ? " 

"Well,  you  were  all  afraid." 

Vanderbank  laughed  straight  out.  "Do  you  mind 
my  telling  her  that  ? " 

"Oh  she  knows  it.    I've  heard  her  say  herself  you 


were." 


"Ah  /  was,"  he  concurred.  "You  know  we've 
spoken  of  that  before." 

"I'm  speaking  now  of  all  of  you,"  said  Nanda. 
"  But  it  was  she  who  was  most  so,  for  she  tried  —  I 

388 


TISHY  GRENDON 

know  she  did,  she  told  me  so  —  to  control  you.  And 
it  was  when  you  were  most  controlled  —  ! " 

Van's  amusement  took  it  up.  "That  we  were  most 
detrimental  ? " 

"  Yes,  because  of  course  what 's  so  awfully  unutter 
able  is  just  what  we  most  notice.  Tishy  knows  that," 
Nanda  wonderfully  observed. 

As  the  reflexion  of  her  tone  might  have  been  caught 
by  an  observer  in  Vanderbank's  face  it  was  in  all 
probability  caught  by  his  interlocutress,  who  super 
ficially,  however,  need  have  recognised  there  —  what 
was  all  she  showed  —  but  the  right  manner  of  waiting 
for  dinner.  "The  better  way  then  is  to  dash  right  in  ? 
That's  what  our  friend  here  does  ?" 

"Oh  you  know  what  she  does!"  the  girl  replied  as 
with  a  sudden  drop  of  interest  in  the  question.  She 
turned  at  the  moment  to  the  opening  of  the  door. 

It  was  Tishy  who  at  last  appeared, 'and  her  guest 
had  his  greeting  ready.  "We're  talking  of  the  deli 
cate  matters  as  to  which  you  think  it's  better  to  dash 
right  in ;  but  I  'm  bound  to  say  your  inviting  a  hun 
gry  man  to  dinner  does  n't  appear  to  be  one  of  them." 

The  sign  of  Tishy  Grendon  —  as  it  had  been  often 
called  in  a  society  in  which  variety  of  reference  had 
brought  to  high  perfection,  for  usual  safety,  the  sense 
of  signs  —  was  a  retarded  facial  glimmer  that,  in 
respect  to  any  subject,  closed  up  the  rear  of  the  pro 
cession.  It  had  been  said  of  her  indeed  that  when 
processions  were  at  all  rapid  she  was  usually  to  be 
found,  on  a  false  impression  of  her  whereabouts, 
mixed  up  with  the  next;  so  that  now,  for  instance, 
by  the  time  she  had  reached  the  point  of  saying  to 

389 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Vanderbank  "Are  you  really  hungry?"  Nanda  had 
begun  to  appeal  to  him  for  some  praise  of  their 
hostess's  appearance.  This  was  of  course  with  soft 
looks  up  and  down  at  her  clothes.  "Is  n't  she  too 
nice  ?  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  lovely  ?" 

"I'm  so  faint  with  inanition,"  Van  replied  to  Mrs. 
Grendon,  "that  —  like  the  traveller  in  the  desert, 
is  n't  it  ?  —  I  only  make  out,  as  an  oasis  or  a  mirage, 
a  sweet  green  rustling  blur.  I  don't  trust  you." 

"I  don't  trust  jyow,"  Nanda  said  on  her  friend's 
behalf.  "She  isn't  'green'  —  men  are  amazing: 
they  don't  know  the  dearest  old  blue  that  ever  was 
seen." 

"Is  it  your  'old  blue'  ?"  Vanderbank,  monocular, 
very  earnestly  asked.  "I  can  imagine  it  was  'dear,' 
but  I  should  have  thought  —  ! " 

"It  was  yellow"  —  Nanda  helped  him  out  —  "if 
I  had  n't  kindly  told  you."  Tishy's  figure  showed 
the  confidence  of  objects  consecrated  by  publicity; 
bodily  speaking  a  beautiful  human  plant,  it  might 
have  taken  the  last  November  gale  to  account  for 
the  completeness  with  which,  in  some  quarters,  she 
had  shed  her  leaves.  Her  companions  could  only 
emphasise  by  the  direction  of  their  eyes  the  nature 
of  the  responsibility  with  which  a  spectator  would 
have  seen  them  saddled  —  a  choice,  as  to  conscious 
ness,  between  the  effect  of  her  being  and  the  effect 
of  her  not  being  dressed.  "Oh  I'm  hideous  —  of 
course  I  know  it,"  said  Tishy.  "I 'm  only  just  clean. 
Here's  Nanda  now,  who's  beautiful,"  she  vaguely 
continued,  "and  Nanda — " 

"Oh  but,  darling,  Nanda 's  clean  too!"  the  young 

39° 


TISHY  GRENDON 

lady  in  question  interrupted;  on  which  her  fellow 
guest  could  only  laugh  with  her  as  in  relief  from  the 
antithesis  of  which  her  presence  of  mind  had  averted 
the  completion,  little  indeed  as  in  Mrs.  Grendon's 
talk  that  element  of  style  was  usually  involved. 

"There's  nothing  in  such  a  matter,"  Vanderbank 
observed  as  if  it  were  the  least  he  could  decently  say, 
"like  challenging  enquiry;  and  here's  Harold,  pre 
cisely,"  he  went  on  in  the  next  breath,  "as  clear  and 
crisp  and  undefiled  as  a  fresh  five-pound  note." 

"A  fresh  one?"  —  Harold  had  passed  in  a  flash 
from  his  hostess.  "A  man  who  like  me  has  n't  seen 
one  for  six  months  could  perfectly  do,  I  assure  you, 
with  one  that  has  lost  its  what-do-you-call  it."  He 
kissed  Nanda  with  a  friendly  peck,  then,  more  com 
pletely  aware,  had  a  straighter  apprehension  for 
Tishy.  "  My  dear  child,  you  seem  to  have  lost  some 
thing,  though  I  '11  say  for  you  that  one  does  n't  miss 
it." 

Mrs.  Grendon  looked  from  him  to  Nanda.  "Does 
he  mean  anything  very  nasty  ?  I  can  only  understand 
you  when  Nanda  explains,"  she  returned  to  Harold. 
"In  fact  there's  scarcely  anything  I  understand 
except  when  Nanda  explains.  It's  too  dreadful  her 
being  away  so  much  now  with  strange  people,  whom 
I  'm  sure  she  can't  begin  to  do  for  what  she  does  for 
me;  it  makes  me  miss  her  all  round.  And  the  only 
thing  I  've  come  across  that  she  can't  explain,"  Tishy 
launched  straight  at  her  friend,  "is  what  on  earth 
she's  doing  there." 

"Why  she's  working  Mr.  Longdon,  like  a  good 
true  girl,"  Harold  said;  "like  a  good  true  daughter 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

and  even,  though  she  does  n't  love  me  nearly  so  much 
as  I  love  her,  I  will  say,  like  a  good  true  sister.  I'm 
bound  to  tell  you,  my  dear  Tishy,"  he  went  on,  "that 
I  think  it  awfully  happy,  with  the  trend  of  manners, 
for  any  really  nice  young  thing  to  be  a  bit  lost  to 
sight.  London,  upon  my  honour,  is  quite  too  awful 
for  girls,  and  any  big  house  in  the  country  is  as  much 
worse  —  with  the  promiscuities  and  opportunities 
and  all  that  —  as  you  know  for  yourselves.  7  know 
some  places,"  Harold  declared,  "where,  if  I  had  any 
girls,  I'd  see  'em  shot  before  I'd  take  'em." 

"Oh  you  know  too  much,  my  dear  boy!"  Vander- 
bank  remarked  with  commiseration. 

"Ah  my  brave  old  Van,"  the  youth  returned, 
"don't  speak  as  if  you  had  illusions.  I  know,"  he 
pursued  to  the  ladies,  "just  where  some  of  Van's  must 
have  perished,  and  some  of  the  places  I  've  in  mind 
are  just  where  he  has  left  his  tracks.  A  man  must  be 
wedded  to  sweet  superstitions  not  nowadays  to  have 
to  open  his  eyes.  Nanda  love,"  he  benevolently  con 
cluded,  "stay  where  you  are.  So  at  least  I  shan't 
blush  for  you.  That  you  've  the  good  fortune  to  have 
reached  your  time  of  life  with  so  little  injury  to  your 
innocence  makes  you  a  case  by  yourself,  of  which  we 
must  recognise  the  claims.  If  Tishy  can't  make  you 
gasp,  that's  nothing  against  you  nor  against  her  — 
Tishy  comes  of  one  of  the  few  innocent  English 
families  that  are  left.  Yes,  you  may  all  cry  'Oho!'  — 
but  I  defy  you  to  name  me  say  five,  or  at  most  seven, 
in  which  some  awful  thing  or  other  has  n't  happened. 
Of  course  ours  is  one,  and  Tishy's  is  one,  and  Van's 
is  one,  and  Mr.  Longdon's  is  one,  and  that  makes 

392 


TISHY  GRENDON 

you,  bang  off,  four.  So  there  you  are !"  Harold  gaily 
wound  up. 

"I  see  now  why  he's  the  rage!"  Vanderbank  ob 
served  to  Nanda. 

But  Mrs.  Grendon  expressed  to  their  young  friend 
a  lingering  wonder.  "  Do  you  mean  you  go  in  for  the 
adoption  —  ? " 

"Oh  Tishy!"  Nanda  mildly  murmured. 

Harold,  however,  had  his  own  tact.  "The  dear 
man's  taking  her  quite  over  ?  Not  altogether  unre 
servedly.  I'm  with  the  governor:  I  think  we  ought 
to  get  something.  'Oh  yes,  dear  man,  but  what  do 
you  give  us  for  her  ? '  —  that 's  what  I  should  say  to 
him.  I  mean,  don't  you  know,  that  I  don't  think 
she's  making  quite  the  bargain  she  might.  If  he  were 
to  want  me  I  don't  say  he  might  n't  have  me,  but  I 
should  have  it  on  my  conscience  to  make  it  in  one 
way  or  another  a  good  thing  for  my  parents.  You  are 
nice,  old  woman"  —  he  turned  to  his  sister  —  "and 
one  can  still  feel  for  the  flower  of  your  youth  some 
thing  of  the  wonderful  *  reverence '  that  we  were  all 
brought  up  on.  For  God's  sake  therefore  —  all  the 
more  —  don't  really  close  with  him  till  you  've  had 
another  word  or  two  with  me.  I  '11  be  hanged  "  —  he 
appealed  to  the  company  again  —  "if  he  shall  have 
her  for  nothing!" 

"See  rather,"  Vanderbank  said  to  Mrs.  Grendon, 
"how  little  it's  like  your  really  losing  her  that  she 
should  be  able  this  evening  fairly  to  bring  the  dear 
man  to  you.  At  this  rate  we  don't  lose  her  —  we 
simply  get  him  as  well." 

"Ah  but  is  it  quite  the  dear  man's  company  we 

393 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

want?"  —  and   Harold  looked   anxious  and   acute. 
"  If  that 's  the  best  arrangement  Nanda  can  make  — ! " 

"  If  he  hears  us  talking  in  this  way,  which  strikes 
me  as  very  horrible,"  Nanda  interposed  very  simply 
and  gravely,  "I  don't  think  we're  likely  to  get  any 
thing." 

"Oh  Harold's  talk,"  Vanderbank  protested,  "offers, 
I  think,  an  extraordinary  interest;  only  I'm  bound  to 
say  it  crushes  me  to  the  earth.  I  Ve  to  make  at  least, 
as  I  listen  to  him,  a  big  effort  to  bear  up.  It  does  n't 
seem  long  ago,"  he  pursued  to  his  young  friend, 
"that  I  used  to  feel  I  was  in  it;  but  the  way  you  bring 
home  to  me,  dreadful  youth,  that  I  'm  already  not  — ! " 

Harold  looked  earnest  to  understand.  ''The  hun 
gry  generations  tread  you  down  —  is  that  it  ?" 

Vanderbank  gave  a  pleasant  tragic  headshake. 
"We  speak  a  different  language." 

"Ah  but  I  think  I  perfectly  understand  yours!" 

"That's  just  my  anguish  —  and  your  advantage. 
It's  awfully  curious,"  Vanderbank  went  on  to  Nanda, 
"  but  I  feel  as  if  I  must  figure  to  him,  you  know,  very 
much  as  Mr.  Longdon  figures  to  me.  Mr.  Longdon 
does  n't  somehow  get  into  me.  Yet  I  do,  I  think,  into 
him.  But  we  don't  matter!" 

"'We'  ?"  — Nanda,  with  her  eyes  on  him,  echoed 
it. 

"Mr.  Longdon  and  I.  It  can't  be  helped,  I  sup 
pose,"  he  went  on,  for  Tishy,  with  sociable  sadness, 
"but  it  is  short  innings." 

Mrs.  Grendon,  who  was  clearly  credulous,  looked 
positively  frightened.  "Ah  but,  my  dear,  thank  you! 
I  have  n't  begun  to  live" 

394 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"Well,  7  have  —  that's  just  where  it  is,"  said 
Harold.  "Thank  you  all  the  more,  old  Van,  for  the 

dp." 

There  was  an  announcement  just  now  at  the  door, 
and  Tishy  turned  to  meet  the  Duchess,  with  Harold, 
almost  as  if  he  had  been  master  of  the  house,  figuring 
but  a  step  behind  her.  "Don't  mind  her,"  Vander- 
bank  immediately  said  to  the  companion  with  whom 
he  was  left,  "  but  tell  me,  while  I  still  have  hold 
of  you,  who  wrote  my  name  on  the  French  novel 
that  I  noticed  a  few  minutes  since  in  the  other 
room  ?" 

Nanda  at  first  only  wondered.  "If  it's  there  — 
did  n't  your' 

He  just  hesitated.  "  If  it  were  here  you  'd  see  if  it 's 
my  hand." 

Nanda  faltered,  and  for  somewhat  longer.  "How 
should  I  see  ?  What  do  I  know  of  your  hand  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  hard.    "You  have  seen  it." 

"  Oh  —  so  little ! "  she  replied  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Do  you  mean  I  've  not  written  to  you  for  so  long  ? 
Surely  I  did  in  —  when  was  it  ? " 

"Yes,  when  ?  But  why  should  you  ?"  she  asked  in 
quite  a  different  tone. 

He  was  not  prepared  on  this  with  the  right  state 
ment,  and  what  he  did  after  a  moment  bring  out  had 
for  the  occasion  a  little  the  sound  of  the  wrong.  "The 
beauty  of  you  is  that  you  're  too  good ;  which  for  me 
is  but  another  way  of  saying  you  're  too  clever.  You 
make  no  demands.  You  let  things  go.  You  don't 
allow  in  particular  for  the  human  weakness  that  en 
joys  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  weakness  of  others." 

395 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

She  had  deeply  attended  to  him.  "You  mean 
perhaps  one  does  n't  show  enough  what  one  wants  ?" 

"I  think  that  must  be  it.  You're  so  fiendishly 
proud." 

She  appeared  again  to  wonder.  "Not  too  much  so, 
at  any  rate,  only  to  want  from  you  — " 

"Well,  what?" 

"Why,  what's  pleasant  for  yourself,"  she  simply 
said. 

"Oh  dear,  that's  poor  bliss!"  he  returned.  "How 
does  it  come  then,"  he  next  said,  "that  with  this 
barrenness  of  our  intercourse  I  know  so  well  your 
hand?" 

A  series  of  announcements  had  meanwhile  been 
made,  with  guests  arriving  to  match  them,  and 
Nanda's  eyes  at  this  moment  engaged  themselves 
with  Mr.  Longdon  and  her  mother,  who  entered  the 
room  together.  When  she  looked  back  to  her  com 
panion  she  had  had  time  to  drop  a  consciousness  of 
his  question.  "  If  I  'm  proud,  to  you,  I  'm  not  good," 
she  said,  "and  if  I'm  good  —  always  to  you  —  I'm 
not  proud.  I  know  at  all  events  perfectly  how  im 
mensely  you're  occupied,  what  a  quantity  of  work 
you  get  through  and  how  every  minute  counts  for 
you.  Don't  make  it  a  crime  to  me  that  I  'm  reason 
able." 

"No,  that  would  show,  wouldn't  it?  that  there 
is  n't  much  else.  But  how  it  all  comes  back  — !" 

"Well,  to  what?"  she  asked. 

"To  the  old  story.  You  know  how  I'm  occupied. 
You  know  how  I  work.  You  know  how  I  manage  my 
time." 

396 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"Oh  I  see,"  said  Nanda.  "It  is  my  knowing,  after 
all,  everything." 

"Everything.  The  book  I  just  mentioned  is  one 
that,  months  ago  —  I  remember  now  —  I  lent  your 
mother." 

"  Oh  a  thing  in  a  blue  cover  ?  I  remember  then  too." 
Nanda's  face  cleared  up.  "I  had  forgotten  it  was 
lying  about  here,  but  I  must  have  brought  it  —  in 
fact  I  remember  I  did  —  for  Tishy.  And  I  wrote  your 
name  on  it  so  that  we  might  know — " 

"That  I  had  n't  lent  it  to  either  of  you  ?  It  did  n't 
occur  to  you  to  write  your  own  ?"  Vanderbank  went 
on. 

"  Well,  but  if  it  is  n't  mine  ?  It  is  n't  mine,  I  'm  sure." 

"Therefore  also  if  it  can't  be  Tishy's  — " 

"The  thing's  simple  enough  —  it's  mother's." 

"'Simple'?"  Vanderbank  laughed.  "I  like  you! 
And  may  I  ask  if  you've  read  the  remarkable  work  ?" 

"Oh  yes."  Then  she  wonderfully  said:  "For 
Tishy." 

"To  see  if  it  would  do  ?" 

"I've  often  done  that,"  the  girl  returned. 

"And  she  takes  your  word  ?" 

"Generally.  I  think  I  remember  she  did  that  rime." 

"And  read  the  confounded  thing?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Nanda. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  longer.  "You're  too 
particular!"  he  rather  oddly  sounded,  turning  away 
with  it  to  meet  Mr.  Longdon. 


II 


WHEN  after  dinner  the  company  was  restored  to  the 
upper  rooms  the  Duchess  was  on  her  feet  as  soon  as 
the  door  opened  for  the  entrance  of  the  gentlemen. 
Then  it  might  have  been  seen  that  she  had  a  purpose, 
for  as  soon  as  the  elements  had  again,  with  a  due 
amount  of  the  usual  shuffling  and  mismatching,  been 
mixed,  her  case  proved  the  first  to  have  been  settled. 
She  had  got  Mr.  Longdon  beside  her  on  a  sofa  that 
was  just  right  for  two.  "I've  seized  you  without 
a  scruple,"  she  frankly  said,  "for  there  are  things 
I  want  to  say  to  you  as  well  as  very  particularly  -to 
ask.  More  than  anything  else  of  course  I  want  again 
to  thank  you." 

No  collapse  of  Mr.  Longdon's  was  ever  incompat 
ible  with  his  sitting  well  forward.  "'Again*  ?" 

"Do  you  look  so  blank,"  she  demanded,  "because 
you've  really  forgotten  the  gratitude  I  expressed  to 
you  when  you  were  so  good  as  to  bring  Nanda  up 
for  Aggie's  marriage  ?  —  or  because  you  don't  think  it 
a  matter  I  should  trouble  myself  to  return  to  ?  How 
can  I  help  it,"  she  went  on  without  waiting  for  his 
answer,  "if  I  see  your  hand  in  everything  that  has 
happened  since  the  so  interesting  talk  I  had  with  you 
last  summer  at  Mertle  ?  There  have  been  times  when 
I've  really  thought  of  writing  to  you;  I've  even 
had  a  bold  bad  idea  of  proposing  myself  to  you  for 
a  Sunday.  Then  the  crisis,  my  momentary  alarm, 

398 


TISHY  GRENDON 

has  struck  me  as  blowing  over,  and  I  've  felt  I  could 
wait  for  some  luck  like  this,  which  would  sooner  or 
later  come."  Her  companion,  however,  appeared  to 
leave  the  luck  so  on  her  hands  that  she  could  only 
snatch  up,  to  cover  its  nudity,  the  next  handsomest 
assumption.  "I  see  you  cleverly  guess  that  what  I  've 
been  worried  about  is  the  effect  on  Mrs.  Brook  of  the 
loss  of  her  dear  Mitchy.  If  you  've  not  at  all  events 
had  your  own  impression  of  this  effect,  is  n't  that  only 
because  these  last  months  you've  seen  so  little  of 
her?  I've  seen,"  said  the  Duchess,  "enough  and  to 
spare."  She  waited  as  if  for  her  vision,  on  this,  to  be 
flashed  back  at  her,  but  the  only  result  of  her  speech 
was  that  her  friend  looked  hard  at  somebody  else. 
It  was  just  this  symptom  indeed  that  perhaps  sufficed 
her,  for  in  a  minute  she  was  again  afloat.  "Things 
have  turned  out  so  much  as  7  desire  them  that  I  should 
really  feel  wicked  not  to  have  a  humble  heart.  There 's 
a  quarter  indeed,"  she  added  with  a  noble  unction, 
"to  which  I  don't  fear  to  say  for  myself  that  no  day 
and  no  night  pass  without  my  showing  it.  However, 
you  English,  I  know,  don't  like  one  to  speak  of  one's 
religion.  I  'm  just  as  simply  thankful  for  mine  —  I 
mean  with  as  little  sense  of  indecency  or  agony  about 
it  —  as  I  am  for  my  health  or  my  carriage.  My  point 
is  at  any  rate  tha.t  I  say  in  no  cruel  spirit  of  triumph, 
yet  do  none  the  less  very  distinctly  say,  that  the  person 
Mr.  Mitchett's  marriage  has  inevitably  pleased  least 
may  be  now  rather  to  be  feared."  These  words  had 
the  sound  of  a  climax,  and  she  had  brought  them 
out  as  if,  with  her  duty  done,  to  leave  them;  but 
something  that  took  place,  for  her  eye,  in  the  face 

399 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mr.  Longdon  had  half-averted  gave  her  after  an  in 
stant  what  he  might  have  called  her  second  wind. 
"Oh  I  know  you  think  she  always  has  been!  But 
you've  exaggerated  —  as  to  that;  and  I  don't  say 
that  even  at  present  it's  anything  we  shan't  get  the 
better  of.  Only  we  must  keep  our  heads.  We  must 
remember  that  from  her  own  point  of  view  she  has 
her  grievance,  and  we  must  at  least  look  as  if  we 
trusted  her.  That,  you  know,  is  what  you've  never 
quite  done." 

He  gave  out  a  murmur  of  discomfort  which  pro 
duced  in  him  a  change  of  position,  and  the  sequel  to 
the  change  was  that  he  presently  accepted  from  his 
cushioned  angle  of  the  sofa  the  definite  support  it 
could  offer.  If  his  eyes  moreover  had  not  met  his  com 
panion's  they  had  been  brought  by  the  hand  he  re 
peatedly  and  somewhat  distressfully  passed  over  them 
closer  to  the  question  of  which  of  the  alien  objects 
presented  to  his  choice  it  would  cost  him  least  to  pro 
fess  to  handle.  What  he  had  already  paid,  a  spectator 
would  easily  have  gathered  from  the  long,  the  sup 
pressed  wriggle  that  had  ended  in  his  falling  back, 
was  some  sacrifice  of  his  habit  of  not  privately  de 
preciating  those  to  whom  he  was  publicly  civil.  It 
was  plain,  however,  that  when  he  presently  spoke 
his  thought  had  taken  a  stretch.  "  I  'm  sure  I  've  fully 
intended  to  be  everything  that's  proper.  But  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Vanderbank  cares  for  her." 

It  kindled  in  the  Duchess  an  immediate  light. 
"  Vous  avez  lien  de  V esprit.  You  put  one  at  one's  ease. 
I  Ve  been  vaguely  groping  while  you  're  already  there. 
It's  really  only  for  Nanda  he  cares  ?" 

400 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"Yes  — really." 

The  Duchess  debated.  "And  yet  exactly  how 
much?" 

"I  have  n't  asked  him." 

She  had  another,  a  briefer  pause.  "Don't  you 
think  it  about  time  you  should?"  Once  more  she 
waited,  then  seemed  to  feel  her  opportunity  would  n't. 
"We've  worked  a  bit  together,  but  you  don't  take 
me  into  your  confidence.  I  dare  say  you  don't  believe 
I  'm  quite  straight.  Don't  you  really  see  how  I  must 
be?"  She  had  a  pleading  note  which  made  him  at 
last  more  consentingly  face  her.  "Don't  you  see," 
she  went  on  with  the  advantage  of  it,  "that,  having 
got  all  I  want  for  myself,  I  have  n't  a  motive  in 
the  world  for  spoiling  the  fun  of  another  ?  I  don't 
want  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,  to  spoil  even  Mrs. 
Brook's;  for  how  will  she  get  a  bit  less  out  of  him 

—  I  mean  than  she  does  now  —  if  what  you  desire 
should  take  place?    Honestly,  my  dear  man,  that's 
quite  what  /  desire,  and  I  only  want,  over  and  above, 
to  help  you.    What  I  feel  for  Nanda,  believe  me,  is 
pure  pity.    I  won't  say  I'm  frantically  grateful  to 
her,  because  in  the  long  run  —  one  way  or  another 

—  she'll  have  found  her   account.    It  nevertheless 
worries  me  to   see  her;   and  all  the  more  because 
of  this  very  certitude,  which  you've  so  kindly  just 
settled  for  me,   that  our  young  man  has  n't  really 
with  her  mother — " 

Whatever  the  certitude  Mr.  Longdon  had  kindly 
settled,  it  was  in  another  interest  that  he  at  this 
moment  broke  in.  "Is  he  your  young  man  too  ?" 

She  was  not  too  much  amused  to  cast  about  her. 
401 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Aren't  such  marked  ornaments  of  life  a  little  the 
property  of  all  who  admire  and  enjoy  them  ?" 

"You  *  enjoy'  him?"  Mr.  Longdon  asked  in  the 
same  straightforward  way. 

"Immensely." 

His  silence  for  a  little  seemed  the  sign  of  a  plan. 
"What  is  it  he  has  n't  done  with  Mrs.  Brook  ?" 

"Well,  the  thing  that  would  be  the  complication. 
He  has  n't  gone  beyond  a  certain  point.  You  may  ask 
how  one  knows  such  matters,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  've  not 
quite  a  receipt  for  it.  A  woman  knows,  but  she  can't 
tell.  They  haven't  done,  as  it's  called,  anything 
wrong." 

Mr.  Longdon  frowned.  "It  would  be  extremely 
horrid  if  they  had." 

"  Ah  but,  for  you  and  me  who  know  life,  it  is  n't  that 
that  —  if  other  things  had  made  for  it  —  would  have 
prevented !  As  it  happens,  however,  we  've  got  off 
easily.  She  doesn't  speak  to  him — !" 

She  had  forms  he  could  only  take  up.  "  <  Speak '  to 
him  —  ?" 

"Why  as  much  as  she  would  have  liked  to  be  able 
to  believe." 

"Then  where 's  the  danger  of  which  you  appear  to 
wish  to  warn  me  ? " 

"Just  in  her  feeling  in  the  case  as  most  women 
would  feel.  You  see  she  did  what  she  could  for  her 
daughter.  She  did,  I  'm  bound  to  say,  as  that  sort  of 
thing  goes  among  you  people,  a  good  deal.  She 
treasured  up,  she  nursed  along  Mitchy,  whom  she 
would  also,  though  of  course  not  so  much,  have  liked 
herself.  Nanda  could  have  kept  him  on  with  a  word, 

402 


TISHY  GRENDON 

becoming  thereby  so  much  the  less  accessible  for 
your  plan.  That  would  have  thoroughly  obliged  her 
mother,  but  your  little  English  girls,  in  these  altered 
times  —  oh  I  know  how  you  feel  them !  —  don't 
stand  on  such  trifles ;  and  —  even  if  you  think  it  odd 
of  me  —  I  can't  defend  myself,  though  I  've  so  directly 
profited,  against  a  certain  compassion  also  for  Mrs. 
Brook's  upset.  As  a  good-natured  woman  I  feel  in 
short  for  both  of  them.  I  deplore  all  round  what's 
after  all  a  rather  sad  relation.  Only,  as  I  tell  you, 
Nanda's  the  one,  I  naturally  say  to  myself,  for  me 
now  most  to  think  of;  if  I  don't  assume  too  much, 
that  is,  that  you  don't  suffer  by  my  freedom." 

Mr.  Longdon  put  by  with  a  mere  drop  of  his  eyes 
the  question  of  his  suffering :  there  was  so  clearly  for 
him  an  issue  more  relevant.  "What  do  you  know  of 
my 'plan'?" 

"Why,  my  dear  man,  have  n't  I  told  you  that  ever 
since  Mertle  I  've  made  out  your  hand  ?  What  on 
earth  for  other  people  can  your  action  look  like  but 
an  adoption  ?" 

"Of  —  a  —  him?" 

"You're  delightful.  Of — a  —  her!  If  it  does 
come  to  the  same  thing  for  you,  so  much  the  better. 
That  at  any  rate  is  what  we're  all  taking  it  for,  and 
Mrs.  Brook  herself  en  tete.  She  sees  —  through  your 
generosity  —  Nanda's  life  more  or  less,  at  the  worst, 
arranged  for, and  that's  just  what  gives  her  a  good 
conscience." 

If  Mr.  Longdon  breathed  rather  hard  it  seemed  to 
show  at  least  that  he  followed.  "What  does  she  want 
of  a  good  conscience  ? " 

403 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

From  under  her  high  tiara  an  instant  she  almost 
looked  down  at  him.  "Ah  you  do  hate  her!" 

He  coloured,  but  held  his  ground.  "Don't  you  tell 
me  yourself  she 's  to  be  feared  ? " 

"Yes,  and  watched.  But  —  if  possible  —  with 
amusement." 

"Amusement?"  Mr.  Longdon  faintly  gasped. 

"Look  at  her  now,"  his  friend  went  on  with  an 
indication  that  was  indeed  easy  to  embrace.  Sepa 
rated  from  them  by  the  width  of  the  room,  Mrs. 
Brook  was,  though  placed  in  profile,  fully  presented; 
the  satisfaction  with  which  she  had  lately  sunk  upon 
a  light  gilt  chair  marked  itself  as  superficial  and  was 
moreover  visibly  not  confirmed  by  the  fact  that 
Vanderbank's  high-perched  head,  arrested  before  her 
in  a  general  survey  of  opportunity,  kept  her  eyes 
too  far  above  the  level  of  talk.  Their  companions 
were  dispersed,  some  in  the  other  room,  and  for  the 
occupants  of  the  Duchess's  sofa  they  made,  as  a 
couple  in  communion,  a  picture,  framed  and  detached, 
vaguely  reduplicated  in  the  high  polish  of  the  French 
floor.  "She  is  tremendously  pretty."  The  Duchess 
appeared  to  drop  this  as  a  plea  for  indulgence  and 
to  be  impelled  in  fact  by  the  interlocutor's  silence  to 
carry  it  further.  "I've  never  at  all  thought,  you 
know,  that  Nanda  touches  her." 

Mr.  Longdon  demurred.  "Do  you  mean  for 
beauty  ? " 

His  friend,  for  his  simplicity,  discriminated.  "Ah 
they've  neither  of  them  'beauty.'  That's  not  a  word 
te  make  free  with.  But  the  mother  has  grace." 

"And  the  daughter  has  n't?" 
404 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"Not  a  line.  You  answer  me  of  course,  when  I  say 
that,  you  answer  me  with  your  adored  Lady  Julia, 
and  will  want  to  know  what  then  becomes  of  the 
lucky  resemblance.  I  quite  grant  you  that  Lady  Julia 
must  have  had  the  thing  we  speak  of.  But  that  dear 
sweet  blessed  thing  is  very  much  the  same  lost  secret 
as  the  dear  sweet  blessed  other  thing  that  went  away 
with  it  —  the  decent  leisure  that,  for  the  most  part, 
we've  also  seen  the  last  of.  It's  the  thing  at  any  rate 
that  poor  Nanda  and  all  her  kind  have  most  effectually 
got  rid  of.  Oh  if  you  'd  trust  me  a  little  more  you  'd  see 
that  r'm  quite  at  one  with  you  on  all  the  changes  for 
the  worse.  I  bear  up,  but  I'm  old  enough  to  have 
known.  All  the  same  Mrs.  Brook  has  something  — 
say  what  you  like  —  when  she  bends  that  little  brown 
head.  Dieu  sait  comme  elle  se  colffe,  but  what  she  gets 
out  of  it !  Only  look." 

Mr.  Longdon  conveyed  in  an  indescribable  manner 
that  he  had  retired  to  a  great  distance;  yet  even  from 
this  position  he  must  have  launched  a  glance  that 
arrived  at  a  middle  way.  "They  both  know  you're 
watching  them." 

"And  don't  they  know  you  are  ?  Poor  Mr.  Van 
has  a  consciousness  ! " 

"So  should  I  if  two  terrible  women  — " 

"Were  admiring  you  both  at  once  ?"  The  Duchess 
folded  the  big  feathered  fan  that  had  partly  protected 
their  vision.  "Well,  she,  poor  dear,  can't  help  it.  She 
wants  him  herself." 

At  the  drop  of  the  Duchess's  fan  he  restored  his 
nippers.  "And  he  does  n't  —  not  a  bit  —  want  her!'* 

"There  it  is.  She  has  put  down  her  money,  as  it 
405 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

were,  without  a  return.  She  has  given  Mitchy  up  and 
got  nothing  instead." 

There  was  delicacy,  yet  there  was  distinctness,  in 
Mr.  Longdon's  reserve.  "Do  you  call  me  nothing?" 

The  Duchess,  at  this,  fairly  swelled  with  her  happy 
stare.  "Then  it  is  an  adoption?"  She  forbore  to 
press,  however ;  she  only  went  on :  "  It  is  n't  a  ques 
tion,  my  dear  man,  of  what  /  call  it.  You  don't  make 
love  to  her." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Longdon,  "what  would  she 
have  had  ? " 

"That  could  be  more  charming,  you  mean,  than 
your  famous  'loyalty'?  Oh,  caro  ra/o,  she  wants  it 
straighter !  But  I  shock  you,"  his  companion  quickly 
added. 

The  manner  in  which  he  firmly  rose  was  scarce  a 
denial;  yet  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  place.  "What 
after  all  can  she  do  ?" 

"She  can  keep  Mr.  Van." 

Mr.  Longdon  wondered.   "Where  ?" 

"I  mean  till  it's  too  late.    She  can  work  on  him." 

"But  how?" 

Covertly  again  the  Duchess  had  followed  the  effect 
of  her  friend's  perceived  movement  on  Mrs.  Brook, 
who  also  got  up.  She  gave  a  rap  with  her  fan  on  his 
leg.  "Sit  down  —  you'll  see." 


Ill 


HE  mechanically  obeyed  her,  though  it  happened  to 
lend  him  the  air  of  taking  Mrs.  Brook's  approach 
for  a  signal  to  resume  his  seat.  She  came  over  to  them, 
Vanderbank  followed,  and  it  was  without  again 
moving,  with  a  vague  upward  gape  in  fact  from  his 
place,  that  Mr.  Longdon  received  as  she  stood  before 
him  a  challenge  of  a  sort  to  flash  a  point  into  what 
the  Duchess  had  just  said.  "Why  do  you  hate  me 
so?" 

Vanderbank,  who,  beside  Mrs.  Brook,  looked  at 
him  with  attention,  might  have  suspected  him  of 
turning  a  trifle  pale ;  though  even  Vanderbank,  with 
reasons  of  his  own  for  an  observation  of  the  sharpest, 
could  scarce  have  read  into  the  matter  the  particular 
dim  vision  that  would  have  accounted  for  it  —  the 
flicker  of  fear  of  what  Mrs.  Brook,  whether  as 
daughter  or  as  mother,  was  at  last  so  strangely  and 
differently  to  show  herself. 

"I  should  warn  you,  sir,"  the  young  man  threw 
off,  "  how  little  we  consider  that  —  in  Buckingham 
Crescent  certainly  —  a  fair  question.  It  is  n't  playing 
the  game  —  it's  hitting  below  the  belt.  We  hate  and 
we  love  —  the  latter  especially ;  but  to  tell  each  other 
why  is  to  break  that  little  tacit  rule  of  finding  out  for 
ourselves  which  is  the  delight  of  our  lives  and  the 
source  of  our  triumphs.  You  can  say,  you  know,  if 
you  like,  but  you're  not  obliged." 

407 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mr.  Longdon  transferred  to  him  something  of  the 
same  colder  apprehension,  looking  at  him  manifestly 
harder  than  ever  before  and  finding  in  his  eyes  also  no 
doubt  a  consciousness  more  charged.  He  presently 
got  up,  but,  without  answering  Vanderbank,  fixed 
again  Mrs.  Brook,  to  whom  he  echoed  without  ex 
pression  :  "  Hate  you  ? " 

The  next  moment,  while  he  remained  in  presence 
with  Vanderbank,  Mrs.  Brook  was  pointing  out  her 
meaning  to  him  from  the  cushioned  corner  he  had 
quitted.  "Why,  when  you  come  back  to  town  you 
come  straight,  as  it  were,  here." 

"Ah  what's  that,"  the  Duchess  asked  in  his  in 
terest,  "but  to  follow  Nanda  as  closely  as  possible,  or 
at  any  rate  to  keep  well  with  her  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook,  however,  had  no  ear  for  this  plea. 
"And  when  I,  coming  here  too  and  thinking  only 
of  my  chance  to  '  meet '  you,  do  my  very  sweetest  to 
catch  your  eye,  you  're  entirely  given  up  —  ! " 

"To  trying  of  course,"  the  Duchess  broke  in 
afresh,  "to  keep  well  with  me!'' 

Mrs.  Brook  now  had  a  smile  for  her.  "Ah  that 
takes  precautions  then  that  I  shall  perhaps  fail  of  if 
I  too  much  interrupt  your  conversation." 

"Is  n't  she  nice  to  me,"  the  Duchess  asked  of  Mr. 
Longdon,  "when  I  was  in  the  very  act  of  praising  her 
to  the  skies  ? " 

Their  interlocutor's  reply  was  not  too  rapid  to  anti 
cipate  Mrs.  Brook  herself.  "My  dear  Jane,  that  only 
proves  his  having  reached  some  extravagance  in  the 
other  sense  that  you  had  in  mere  decency  to  match. 
The  truth  is  probably  in  the  'mean' — isn't  that 

408 


TISHY  GRENDON 

what  they  call  it  ?  —  between  you.  Don't  you  now 
take  him  away,"  she  went  on  to  Vanderbank,  who 
had  glanced  about  for  some  better  accommodation. 

He  immediately  pushed  forward  the  nearest  chair, 
which  happened  to  be  by  the  Duchess's  side  of  the 
sofa.  "Will  you  sit  here,  sir?" 

"  If  you  '11  stay  to  protect  me." 

"That  was  really  what  I  brought  him  over  to  you 
for,"  Mrs.  Brook  said  while  Mr.  Longdon  took  his 
place  and  Vanderbank  looked  out  for  another  seat. 
"  But  I  did  n't  know,"  she  observed  with  her  sweet 
free  curiosity,  "that  he  called  you  'sir."  She  often 
made  discoveries  that  were  fairly  childlike.  "  He  has 
done  it  twice." 

"Is  n't  that  only  your  inevitable  English  surprise," 
the  Duchess  demanded,  "at  the  civility  quite  the 
commonest  in  other  societies  ?  —  so  that  one  has  to 
come  here  to  find  it  regarded,  in  the  way  of  ceremony, 
as  the  very  end  of  the  world !" 

"Oh,"  Mr.  Longdon  remarked,  "it's  a  word  I 
rather  like  myself  even  to  employ  to  others." 

"I  always  ask  here,"  the  Duchess  continued  to 
him,  "what  word  they've  got  instead.  And  do  you 
know  what  they  tell  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  wondered,  then  again,  before  he  was 
ready,  charmingly  suggested :  "  Our  pretty  manner  ? " 
Quickly  too  she  appealed  to  Mr.  Longdon.  "Is  that 
what  you  miss  from  me  ?" 

He  wondered,  however,  more  than  Mrs.  Brook. 
"Your  'pretty  manner'  ?" 

"Well,  these  grand  old  forms  that  the  Duchess  is 
such  a  mistress  of."  Mrs.  Brook  had  with  this  one  of 

409 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

her  eagerest  visions.  "Did  mamma  say  'sir*  to  you  ? 
Ought  I?  Do  you  really  get  it,  in  private,  out  of 
Nanda  ?  She  has  such  depths  of  discretion,"  she  ex 
plained  to  the  Duchess  and  to  Vanderbank,  who  had 
come  back  with  his  chair,  "that  it's  just  the  kind  of 
racy  anecdote  she  never  in  the  world  gives  me." 

Mr.  Longdon  looked  across  at  Van,  placed  now, 
after  a  moment's  talk  with  Tishy  in  sight  of  them  all, 
by  Mrs.  Brook's  arm  of  the  sofa.  "You  haven't 
protected  —  you  've  only  exposed  me." 

"Oh  there's  no  joy  without  danger"  —  Mrs. 
Brook  took  it  up  with  spirit.  "Perhaps  one  should 
even  say  there's  no  danger  without  joy." 

Vanderbank's  eyes  had  followed  Mrs.  Grendon 
after  his  brief  passage  with  her,  terminated  by  some 
need  of  her  listless  presence  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  "What  do  you  say  then,  on  that  theory,  to 
the  extraordinary  gloom  of  our  hostess  ?  Her  safety, 
by  such  a  rule,  must  be  deep." 

The  Duchess  was  this  time  the  first  to  know  what 
they  said.  "The  expression  of  Tishy's  face  comes 
precisely  from  our  comparing  it  so  unfavourably  with 
that  of  her  poor  sister  Carrie,  who,  though  she  is  n't 
here  to-night  with  the  Cashmores  —  amazing  enough 
even  as  coming  without  that !  —  has  so  often  shown  us 
that  an  ame  en  peine,  constantly  tottering,  but,  as 
Nanda  guarantees  us,  usually  recovering,  may  look 
after  all  as  beatific  as  a  Dutch  doll." 

Mrs.  Brook's  eyes  had,  on  Tishy's  passing  away, 
taken  the  same  course  as  Vanderbank's,  whom  she 
had  visibly  not  neglected  moreover  while  the  pair 
stood  there.  "I  give  you  Carrie,  as  you  know,  and  I 

410 


TISHY  GRENDON 

throw  Mr.  Cashmore  in;  but  I'm  lost  in  admiration 
to-night,  as  I  always  have  been,  of  the  way  Tishy 
makes  her  ugliness  serve.  I  should  call  it,  if  the  word 
were  n't  so  for  ladies'-maids,  the  most  'elegant'  thing 
I  know." 

"My  dear  child,"  the  Duchess  objected,  "what 
you  describe  as  making  her  ugliness  serve  is  what  I 
should  describe  as  concealing  none  of  her  beauty. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  surely  with  *  elegant'  as 
applied  to  Tishy  save  that  as  commonly  used  it  refers 
rather  to  a  charm  that's  artificial  than  to  a  state  of 
pure  nature.  There  should  be  for  elegance  a  basis 
of  clothing.  Nanda  rather  stints  her." 

Mrs.  Brook,  perhaps  more  than  usually  thoughtful, 
just  discriminated.  "There  is,  I  think,  one  little 
place.  I'll  speak  to  her." 

"To  Tishy?"  Vanderbank  asked. 

"Oh  that  would  do  no  good.  To  Nanda.  All  the 
same,"  she  continued,  "it's  an  awfully  superficial 
thing  of  you  not  to  see  that  her  dreariness  —  on 
which  moreover  I  've  set  you  right  before  —  is  a  mere 
facial  accident  and  does  n't  correspond  or,  as  they  say, 
'rhyme'  to  anything  within  her  that  might  make  it  a 
little  interesting.  What  I  like  it  for  is  just  that  it's  so 
funny  in  itself.  Her  low  spirits  are  nothing  more  than 
her  features.  Her  gloom,  as  you  call  it,  is  merely  her 
broken  nose." 

"Has  she  a  broken  nose?"  Mr.  Longdon  de 
manded  with  an  accent  that  for  some  reason  touched 
in  the  others  the  spring  of  laughter. 

"Has  Nanda  never  mentioned  it?"  Mrs.  Brook 
profited  by  this  gaiety  to  ask. 

411 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"That's  the  discretion  you  just  spoke  of,"  said  the 
Duchess.  "Only  I  should  have  expected  from  the 
cause  you  refer  to  rather  the  comic  effect." 

"Mrs.  Grendon's  broken  nose,  sir,"  Vanderbank 
explained  to  Mr.  Longdon,  "is  only  the  kinder  way 
taken  by  these  ladies  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Grendon's 
broken  heart.  You  must  know  all  about  that." 

"Oh  yes  —  all."  Mr.  Longdon  spoke  very  simply, 
with  the  consequence  this  time,  on  the  part  of  his 
companions,  of  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  which  he 
himself  had  at  last  to  break.  "Mr.  Grendon  does  n't 
like  her."  The  addition  of  these  words  apparently 
made  the  difference  —  as  if  they  constituted  a  fresh 
link  with  the  irresistible  comedy  of  things.  That  he 
was  unexpectedly  diverting  was,  however,  no  check 
to  Mr.  Longdon's  delivering  his  full  thought.  "Very 
horrid  of  two  sisters  to  be  both,  in  their  marriages,  so 
wretched." 

"Ah  but  Tishy,  I  maintain,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned, 
"is  n't  wretched  at  all.  If  I  were  satisfied  that  she's 
really  so  I'd  never  let  Nanda  come  to  her." 

"That's  the  most  extraordinary  doctrine,  love," 
the  Duchess  interposed.  "When  you're  satisfied  a 
woman's  'really'  poor  you  never  give  her  a  crust  ?" 

"Do  you  call  Nanda  a  crust,  Duchess?"  Vander 
bank  amusedly  asked. 

"She's  all  at  any  rate,  apparently,  just  now,  that 
poor  Tishy  has  to  live  on." 

"You're  severe  then,"  the  young  man  said,  "on 
our  dinner  of  to-night." 

"Oh  Jane,"  Mrs.  Brook  declared,  "is  never  severe: 
she's  only  uncontrollably  witty.  It's  only  Tishy 

412 


TISHY  GRENDON 

moreover  who  gives  out  that  her  husband  does  n't  like 
her.  He,  poor  man,  does  n't  say  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Yes,  but,  after  all,  you  know" — Vanderbank 
just  put  it  to  her  —  "where  the  deuce,  all  the  while, 
whef" 

"Heaven  forbid,"  the  Duchess  remarked,  "that  we 
should  too  rashly  ascertain." 

"There  it  is  —  exactly,"  Mr.  Longdon  subjoined. 

He  had  once  more  his  success  of  hilarity,  though 
not  indeed  to  the  injury  of  the  Duchess's  next  word. 
"It's  Nanda,  you  know,  who  speaks,  and  loud 
enough,  for  Harry  Grendon's  dislikes." 

"That's  easy  for  her,"  Mrs.  Brook  declared, 
"when  she  herself  is  n't  one  of  them." 

"She  is  n't  surely  one  of  anybody's,"  Mr.  Longdon 
gravely  observed. 

Mrs.  Brook  gazed  across  at  him.  "You  are  too 
dear!  But  I  've  none  the  less  a  crow  to  pick  with  you." 

Mr.  Longdon  returned  her  look,  but  returned  it 
somehow  to  Van.  "You  frighten  me,  you  know,  out 
of  my  wits." 

"/do?"  said  Vanderbank. 

Mr.  Longdon  just  hesitated.    "Yes." 

"It  must  be  the  sacred  terror,"  Mrs.  Brook  sug 
gested  to  Van,  "that  Mitchy  so  often  speaks  of.  7'm 
not  trying  with  you,"  she  went  on  to  Mr.  Longdon, 
"for  anything  of  that  kind,  but  only  for  the  short 
half-hour  in  private  that  I  think  you  won't  for  the 
world  grant  me.  Nothing  will  induce  you  to  find 
yourself  alone  with  me." 

"Why  what  on  earth,"  Vanderbank  asked,  "do 
you  suspect  him  of  supposing  you  want  to  do  ?" 

413 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh  it  is  n't  that,"  Mrs.  Brook  sadly  said. 

"It  is  n't  what  ?"  laughed  the  Duchess. 

"That  he  fears  I  may  want  in  any  way  to  — what 
do  you  call  it  ?  —  make  up  to  him."  She  spoke  as  if 
she  only  wished  it  had  been.  "He  has  a  deeper 
thought." 

"Well  then  what  in  goodness  is  it  ?"  the  Duchess 
pressed. 

Mr.  Longdon  had  said  nothing  more,  but  Mrs. 
Brook  preferred  none  the  less  to  treat  the  question 
as  between  themselves.  She  was,  as  the  others  said, 
wonderful.  "You  can't  help  thinking  me"  —  she 
spoke  to  him  straight  —  "rather  tortuous."  The 
pause  she  thus  momentarily  produced  was  so  in 
tense  as  to  give  a  sharpness  that  was  almost  vulgar 
to  the  little  "  Oh  ! "  by  which  it  was  presently  broken 
and  the  source  of  which  neither  of  her  three  com 
panions  could  afterwards  in  the  least  have  named. 
Neither  would  have  endeavoured  to  fix  an  infelicity 
of  which  each  doubtless  had  been  but  too  capable. 
"It's  only  as  a  mother,"  she  added,  "that  I  want  my 
chance." 

But  the  Duchess  was  at  this  again  in  the  breach. 
"Take  it,  for  mercy's  sake  then,  my  dear,  over 
Harold,  who's  an  example  to  Nanda  herself  in  the 
way  that,  behind  the  piano  there,  he's  keeping  it  up 
with  Lady  Fanny." 

If  this  had  been  a  herring  that,  in  the  interest  of 
peace,  the  Duchess  had  wished  to  draw  across  the 
scent,  it  could  scarce  have  been  more  effective.  Mrs. 
Brook,  whose  position  had  made  just  the  difference 
that  she  lost  the  view  of  the  other  side  of  the  piano, 

414 


TISHY  GRENDON 

took  a  slight  but  immediate  stretch.  "Is  Harold  with 
Lady  Fanny?" 

"You  ask  it,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  Duchess, 
"as  if  it  were  too  grand  to  be  believed.  It's  the  note 
of  eagerness,"  she  went  on  for  Mr.  Longdon's  bene 
fit  —  "  it 's  almost  the  note  of  hope :  one  of  those  that 
ces  messieurs,  that  we  all  in  fact  delight  in  and  find 
so  matchless.  She  desires  for  Harold  the  highest 
advantages." 

"Well  then,"  declared  Vanderbank,  who  had 
achieved  a  glimpse,  "he's  clearly  having  them.  It 
brings  home  to  one  his  success." 

"His  success  is  true,"  Mrs.  Brook  insisted.  "How 
he  does  it  I  don't  know." 

"Oh  dorit  you  ?"  trumpeted  the  Duchess. 

"He's  amazing,"  Mrs.  Brook  pursued.  "I  watch 
—  I  hold  my  breath.  But  I'm  bound  to  say  also  I 
rather  admire.  He  somehow  amuses  them." 

"She's  as  pleased  as  Punch,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Those  great  calm  women  —  they  like  slighter 
creatures." 

"The  great  calm  whales,"  the  Duchess  laughed, 
"swallow  the  little  fishes." 

"Oh  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned,  "Harold  can 
be  tasted,  if  you  like  — " 

"  If  /  like  ? "  the  Duchess  parenthetically  jeered. 
"Thank  you,  love!" 

"  But  he  can't,  I  think,  be  eaten.  It  all  works  out," 
Mrs.  Brook  expounded,  "to  the  highest  end.  If  Lady 
Fanny's  amused  she'll  be  quiet." 

"Bless  me,"  cried  the  Duchess,  "of  all  the  im 
moral  speeches  — !  I  put  it  to  you,  Longdon.  Does 

415 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

she  mean  "  —  she  appealed  to  their  friend  — "  that  if 
she  commits  murder  she  won't  commit  anything  else  ? " 

"Oh  it  won't  be  murder,"  said  Mrs.  Brook.  "I 
mean  that  if  Harold,  in  one  way  and  another,  keeps 
her  along,  she  won't  get  off." 

"Off  where?"  Mr.  Longdon  risked. 

Vanderbank  immediately  informed  him.  "To  one 
of  the  smaller  Italian  towns.  Don't  you  know  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.    Like  —  who  is  it  ?    I  forget." 

"Anna  Karenine  ?    You  know  about  Anna  ?" 

"Nanda,"  said  the  Duchess,  "has  told  him.  But 
I  thought,"  she  went  on  to  Mrs.  Brook,  "  that  Lady 
Fanny,  by  this  time,  must  have  gone." 

"Petherton  then,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned,  "does  n't 
keep  you  au  courant?" 

The  Duchess  blandly  wondered.  "I  seem  to  re 
member  he  had  positively  said  so.  And  that  she  had 
come  back." 

"  Because  this  looks  so  like  a  fresh  start  ?  No.  We 
know.  You  assume  besides,"  Mrs.  Brook  asked, 
"  that  Mr.  Cashmore  would  have  received  her  again  ? " 

The  Duchess  fixed  a  little  that  gentleman  and  his 
actual  companion.  "What  will  you  have?  He 
might  n't  have  noticed." 

"Oh  you're  out  of  step,  Duchess,"  Vanderbank 
said.  "  We  used  all  to  march  abreast,  but  we  're  falling 
to  pieces.  It's  all,  saving  your  presence,  Mitchy's 
marriage." 

"Ah,"  Mrs.  Brook  concurred,  "how  thoroughly  I 
feel  that !  Oh  I  knew.  The  spell 's  broken ;  the  harp 
has  lost  a  string.  We  're  not  the  same  thing.  He 's  not 
the  same  thing." 

416 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"Frankly,  my  dear,"  the  Duchess  answered,  "I 
don't  think  that  you  personally  are  either." 

"  Oh  as  for  that  —  which  is  what  matters  least  — 
we  shall  perhaps  see."  With  which  Mrs.  Brook 
turned  again  to  Mr.  Longdon.  "  I  have  n't  explained 
to  you  what  I  meant  just  now.  We  want  Nanda." 

Mr.  Longdon  stared.    "At  home  again?" 

"In  her  little  old  nook.   You  must  give  her  back." 

"  Do  you  mean  altogether  ? " 

"Ah  that  will  be  for  you  in  a  manner  to  arrange. 
But  you  've  had  her  practically  these  five  months,  and 
with  no  desire  to  be  unreasonable  we  yet  have  our 
natural  feelings." 

This  interchange,  to  which  circumstances  somehow 
gave  a  high  effect  of  suddenness  and  strangeness,  was 
listened  to  by  the  others  in  a  quick  silence  that  was 
like  the  sense  of  a  blast  of  cold  air,  though  with  the 
difference  between  the  spectators  that  Vanderbank 
attached  his  eyes  hard  to  Mrs.  Brook  and  that  the 
Duchess  looked  as  straight  at  Mr.  Longdon,  to  whom 
clearly  she  wished  to  convey  that  if  he  had  wondered 
a  short  time  before  how  Mrs.  Brook  would  do  it  he 
must  now  be  quite  at  his  ease.  He  indulged  in  fact, 
after  this  lady's  last  words,  in  a  pause  that  might  have 
signified  some  of  the  fulness  of  a  new  light.  He  only 
said  very  quietly:  "I  thought  you  liked  it." 

At  this  his  neighbour  broke  in.  "The  care  you 
take  of  the  child  ?  They  do!"  The  Duchess,  as  she 
spoke,  became  aware  of  the  nearer  presence  of  Edward 
Brookenham,  who  within  a  minute  had  come  in  from 
the  other  room;  and  her  decision  of  character  leaped 
forth  in  her  quick  signal  to  him.  "Edward  will  tell 

417 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

you."  He  was  already  before  their  semicircle.  "Do 
you,  dear,"  she  appealed,  "want  Nanda  back  from 
Mr.  Longdon  ? " 

Edward  plainly  could  be  trusted  to  feel  in  his  quiet 
way  that  the  oracle  must  be  a  match  for  the  priestess. 
"'Want'  her,  Jane  ?  We  would  n't  take  her."  And 
as  if  knowing  quite  what  he  was  about  he  looked 
at  his  wife  only  after  he  had  spoken. 


IV 


His  reply  had  complete  success,  to  which  there  could 
scarce  have  afterwards  been  a  positive  denial  that 
some  sound  of  amusement  even  from  Mr.  Longdon 

O 

himself  had  in  its  degree  contributed.  Certain  it 
was  that  Mrs.  Brook  found,  as  she  exclaimed  that 
her  husband  was  always  so  awfully  civil,  just  the 
right  note  of  resigned  understanding;  whereupon 
he  for  a  minute  presented  to  them  blankly  enough 
his  fine  dead  face.  "'Civil*  is  just  what  I  was  afraid 
I  was  n't.  I  mean,  you  know,"  he  continued  to  Mr. 
Longdon,  "  that  you  really  must  n't  look  to  us  to  let 
you  off—!" 

"  From  a  week  or  a  day "  —  Mr.  Longdon  took 
him  up  —  "of  the  time  to  which  you  consider  I've 
pledged  myself?  My  dear  sir,  please  don't  imagine 
it's  for  me  the  Duchess  appeals." 

"  It 's  from  your  wife,  you  delicious  dull  man,"  that 
lady  elucidated.  "If  you  wished  to  be  stiff  with  our 
friend  here  you've  really  been  so  with  her;  which 
comes,  no  doubt,  from  the  absence  between  you  of 
proper  preconcerted  action.  You  spoke  without  your 
cue." 

"Oh!"  said  Edward  Brookenham. 

"That's  it,  Jane"  —  Mrs.  Brook  continued  to 
take  it  beautifully.  "We  dressed  to-day  in  a  hurry 
and  had  n't  time  for  our  usual  rehearsal.  Edward, 
when  we  dine  out,  generally  brings  three  pocket- 

419 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

handkerchiefs  and  six  jokes.  I  leave  the  manage 
ment  of  the  handkerchiefs  to  his  own  taste,  but  we 
mostly  try  together  in  advance  to  arrange  a  career 
for  the  other  things.  It's  some  charming  light  thing 
of  my  own  that's  supposed  to  give  him  the  sign." 

"Only  sometimes  he  confounds"  —  Vanderbank 
helped  her  out  —  "your  light  and  your  heavy!"  He 
had  got  up  to  make  room  for  his  host  of  so  many 
occasions  and,  having  forced  him  into  the  empty  chair, 
now  moved  vaguely  off  to  the  quarter  of  the  room 
occupied  by  Nanda  and  Mr.  Cashmore. 

"That's  very  well,"  the  Duchess  resumed,  "but  it 
does  n't  at  all  clear  you,  cara  mia,  of  the  misde 
meanour  of  setting  up  as  a  felt  domestic  need  some 
thing  of  which  Edward  proves  deeply  unconscious. 
He  has  put  his  finger  on  Nanda's  true  interest.  He 
does  n't  care  a  bit  how  it  would  look  for  you  to  want 
her." 

"  Don't  you  mean  rather,  Jane,  how  it  looks  for  us 
not  to  want  her  ? "  Mrs.  Brook  amended  with  a  detach 
ment  now  complete.  "Of  course,  dear  old  friend," 
she  continued  to  Mr.  Longdon,  "she  quite  puts  me 
with  my  back  to  the  wall  when  she  helps  you  to  see  — 
what  you  otherwise  might  n't  guess  —  that  Edward 
and  I  work  it  out  between  us  to  show  off  as  tender 
parents  and  yet  to  get  from  you  everything  you'll 
give.  I  do  the  sentimental  and  he  the  practical;  so 
that  we,  after  one  fashion  and  another,  deck  our 
selves  in  the  glory  of  our  sacrifice  without  forfeiting 
the  'keep'  of  our  daughter.  This  must  appeal  to  you 
as  another  useful  illustration  of  what  London  man 
ners  have  come  to ;  unless  indeed,"  Mrs.  Brook  prat- 

420 


TISHY  GRENDON 

tied  on,  "  it  only  strikes  you  still  more  —  and  to  a 
degree  that  blinds  you  to  its  other  possible  bearings 
—  as  the  last  proof  that  I  'm  too  tortuous  for  you  to 
know  what  I'd  be  at!" 

Mr.  Longdon  faced  her,  across  his  interval,  with 
his  original  terror  represented  now  only  by  such  a 
lingering  flush  as  might  have  formed  a  natural  tribute 
to  a  brilliant  scene.  "  I  have  n't  the  glimmering  of  an 
idea  of  what  you  'd  be  at.  But  please  understand," 
he  added,  "that  I  don't  at  all  refuse  you  the  private 
half-hour  you  referred  to  a  while  since." 

"Are  you  really  willing  to  put  the  child  up  for  the 
rest  of  the  year  ?  "Edward  placidly  demanded,  speak 
ing  as  if  quite  unaware  that  anything  else  had  taken 
place. 

His  wife  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.  "The  ingenuity 
of  your  companions,  love,  plays  in  the  air  like  the 
lightning,  but  flashes  round  your  head  only,  by  good 
fortune,  to  leave  it  unscathed.  Still,  you  have  after 
all  your  own  strange  wit,  and  I  'm  not  sure  that  any 
of  ours  ever  compares  with  it.  Only,  confronted  also 
with  ours,  how  can  poor  Mr.  Longdon  really  choose 
which  of  the  two  he  '11  meet  ? " 

Poor  Mr.  Longdon  now  looked  hard  at  Edward. 
"Oh  Mr.  Brookenham's,  I  feel,  any  day.  It's  even 
with  you,  I  confess,"  he  said  to  him,  "  that  I  'd  rather 
have  that  private  half-hour." 

"Done!"  Mrs.  Brook  declared.  "Til  send  him  to 
you.  But  we  have,  you  know,  as  Van  says,  gone 
to  pieces,"  she  went  on,  twisting  her  pretty  head  and 
tossing  it  back  over  her  shoulder  to  an  auditor  of 
whose  approach  to  her  from  behind,  though  it  was 

421 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

impossible  she  should  have  seen  him,  she  had  visibly 
within  a  minute  become  aware.  "It's  your  marriage, 
Mitchy,  that  has  darkened  our  old  bright  air,  changed 
us  more  than  we  even  yet  know,  and  most  grossly  and 
horribly,  my  dear  man,  changed  you.  You  steal  up  in 
a  way  that  gives  one  the  creeps,  whereas  in  the  good 
time  that's  gone  you  always  burst  in  with  music  and 
song.  Go  round  where  I  can  see  you:  I  may  n't  love 
you  now,  but  at  least,  I  suppose,  I  may  look  at  you. 
Direct  your  energies,"  she  pursued  while  Mitchy 
obeyed  her,  "as  much  as  possible,  please,  against  our 
uncanny  chill.  Pile  on  the  fire  and  close  up  the  ranks; 
this  was  our  best  hour,  you  know  —  and  all  the  more 
that  Tishy,  I  see,  is  getting  rid  of  her  superfluities. 
Here  comes  back  old  Van,"  she  wound  up,  "van 
quished,  I  judge,  in  the  attempt  to  divert  Nanda 
from  her  prey.  Won't  Nanda  sit  with  poor  us  ?  "  she 
asked  of  Vanderbank,  who  now,  meeting  Mitchy  in 
range  of  the  others,  remained  standing  with  him  and 
as  at  her  commands. 

"I  didn't  of  course  ask  her,"  the  young  man 
replied. 

"Then  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"I  only  took  a  little  walk." 

Mrs.  Brook,  on  this,  was  woeful  at  Mitchy.  "See 
then  what  we've  come  to.  When  did  we  ever  'walk ' 
in  your  time  save  as  a  distinct  part  of  the  effect  of  our 
good  things  ?  Please  return  to  Nanda,"  she  said  to 
Vanderbank,  "and  tell  her  I  particularly  wish  her 
to  come  in  for  this  delightful  evening's  end." 

"She's  joining  us  of  herself  now,"  the  Duchess 
noted,  "  and  so 's  Mr.  Cashmore  and  so 's  Tishy  — 

422 


TISHY  GRENDON 

voyez! — who  has  kept  on  —  (bless  her  little  bare 
back !)  —  no  one  she  ought  n't  to  keep.  As  nobody 
else  will  now  arrive  it  would  be  quite  cosey  if  she 
locked  the  door." 

"  But  what  on  earth,  my  dear  Jane,"  Mrs.  Brook 
plaintively  wondered,  "are  you  proposing  we  should 
do?" 

Mrs.  Brook,  in  her  apprehension,  had  looked 
expressively  at  their  friends,  but  the  eye  of  the 
Duchess  wandered  no  further  than  Harold  and  Lady 
Fanny.  "  It  would  perhaps  serve  to  keep  that  pair 
a  little  longer  from  escaping  together." 

Mrs.  Brook  took  a  pause  no  greater.  "  But  would  n't 
it  be,  as  regards  another  pair,  locking  the  stable-door 
after  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  Don't  Petherton  and 
Aggie  appear  already  to  have  escaped  together  ? 
Mitchy,  man,  where  in  the  world's  your  wife  ?" 

"I  quite  grant  you,"  said  the  Duchess  gaily,  "that 
my  niece  is  wherever  Petherton  is.  This  I  'm  sure  of, 
for  there 's  a  friendship,  if  you  please,  that  has  not 
been  interrupted.  Petherton 's  not  gone,  is  he  ?"  she 
asked  in  her  turn  of  Mitchy. 

But  again  before  he  could  speak  it  was  taken  up. 
"  Mitchy 's  silent,  Mitchy 's  altered,  Mitchy 's  queer ! " 
Mrs.  Brook  proclaimed,  while  the  new  recruits  to 
the  circle,  Tishy  and  Nanda  and  Mr.  Cashmore, 
Lady  Fanny  and  Harold  too  after  a  minute  and  on 
perceiving  the  movement  of  the  others,  ended  by 
enlarging  it,  with  mutual  accommodation  and  aid, 
to  a  pleasant  talkative  ring  in  which  the  subject  of 
their  companion's  demonstration,  on  a  low  ottoman 
and  glaring  in  his  odd  way  in  almost  all  directions 

423 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

at  once,  formed  the  conspicuous  attractive  centre. 
Tishy  was  nearest  Mr.  Longdon,  and  Nanda,  still 
flanked  by  Mr.  Cashmore,  between  that  gentleman 
and  his  wife,  who  had  Harold  on  her  other  side. 
Edward  Brookenham  was  neighboured  by  his  son  and 
by  Vanderbank,  who  might  easily  have  felt  himself, 
in  spite  of  their  separation  and  given,  as  it  happened, 
their  places  in  the  group,  rather  publicly  confronted 
with  Mr.  Longdon.  "  Is  his  wife  in  the  other  room  ? " 
Mrs.  Brook  now  put  to  Tishy. 

Tishy,  after  a  stare  about,  recovered  the  acuter 
consciousness  to  account  for  this  guest.  "Oh  yes  — 
she's  playing  with  him." 

"But  with  whom,  dear?" 

"Why,  with  Petherton.    I  thought  you  knew." 

"Knew  they're  playing  —  ?"  Mrs.  Brook  was 
almost  Socratic. 

"The  Missus  is  regularly  wound  up,"  her  husband 
meanwhile,  without  resonance,  observed  to  Vander 
bank. 

"Brilliant  indeed!"  Vanderbank  replied. 

"But  she's  rather  naughty,  you  know,"  Edward 
after  a  pause  continued. 

"Oh  fiendish!"  his  interlocutor  said  with  a  short 
smothered  laugh  that  might  have  represented  for  a 
spectator  a  sudden  start  at  such  a  flash  of  analysis 
from  such  a  quarter. 

When  Vanderbank's  attention  at  any  rate  was  free 
again  their  hostess,  assisted  to  the  transition,  was 
describing  the  play,  as  she  had  called  it,  of  the 
absentees.  "She  has  hidden  a  book  and  he's  trying 
to  find  it." 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"  Hide  and  seek  ?  Why,  is  n't  it  innocent,  Mitch ! " 
Mrs.  Brook  exclaimed. 

Mitchy,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  faced  her  with 
extravagant  gloom.  "  Do  you  really  think  so  ? " 

"That's  her  innocence!"  the  Duchess  laughed  to 
him. 

"And  don't  you  suppose  he  has  found  it  yet?" 
Mrs.  Brook  pursued  earnestly  to  Tishy.  "Isn't  it 
something  we  might  all  play  at  if — ?"  On  which 
however,  abruptly  checking  herself,  she  changed  her 
note.  "Nanda  love,  please  go  and  invite  them  to 
join  us." 

Mitchy,  at  this,  on  his  ottoman,  wheeled  straight 
round  to  the  girl,  who  looked  at  him  before  speaking. 
"I'll  go  if  Mitchy  tells  me." 

"But  if  he  does  fear,"  said  her  mother,  "that  there 
may  be  something  in  it  —  ? " 

Mitchy  jerked  back  to  Mrs.  Brook.  "Well,  you 
see,  I  don't  want  to  give  way  to  my  fear.  Suppose 
there  should  be  something!  Let  me  not  know." 

She  dealt  with  him  tenderly.  "I  see.  You  could  n't 
—  so  soon  —  bear  it." 

"Ah  but,  savez-vous"  the  Duchess  interposed  with 
some  majesty,  "you're  horrid!" 

"Let  them  alone,"  Mitchy  continued.  "We  don't 
want  at  all  events  a  general  romp." 

"Oh  I  thought  just  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "was 
what  the  Duchess  wished  the  door  locked  for!  Per 
haps  moreover  "  —  she  returned  to  Tishy  —  "  he 
has  n't  yet  found  the  book." 

"He  can't,"  Tishy  said  with  simplicity. 

"  But  why  in  the  world  —  ? " 
425 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"You  see  she's  sitting  on  it"  —  Tishy  felt,  it  was 
plain,  the  responsibility  of  explanation.  "So  that 
unless  he  pulls  her  off  — " 

"He  can't  compass  his  desperate  end  ?  Ah  I  hope 
he  won't  pull  her  off  ! "  Mrs.  Brook  wonderfully  mur 
mured.  It  was  said  in  a  manner  that  stirred  the  circle, 
and  unanimous  laughter  seemed  already  to  have 
crowned  her  invocation,  lately  uttered,  to  the  social 
spirit.  "  But  what  in  the  world,"  she  pursued,  "  is 
the  book  selected  for  such  a  position  ?  I  hope  it 's  not 
a  very  big  one." 

"  Oh  are  n't  the  books  that  are  sat  upon,"  Mr. 
Cashmore  freely  speculated,  "as  a  matter  of  course 
the  bad  ones  ? " 

"Not  a  bit  as  a  matter  of  course,"  Harold  as  freely 
replied  to  him.  "They  sit,  all  round,  nowadays  —  I 
mean  in  the  papers  and  places  —  on  some  awfully 
good  stuff.  Why  I  myself  read  books  that  I  could  n't 
—  upon  my  honour  I  would  n't  risk  it !  —  read  out  to 
you  here." 

"What  a  pity,"  his  father  dropped  with  the  special 
shade  of  dryness  that  was  all  Edward's  own,  "what 
a  pity  you  have  n't  got  one  of  your  favourites  to  try 
on  us!" 

Harold  looked  about  as  if  it  might  have  been  after 
all  a  happy  thought.  "Well,  Nanda's  the  only  girl." 

"And  one's  sister  does  n't  count,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"It's  just  because  the  thing's  bad,"  Tishy  re 
sumed  for  Mrs.  Brook's  more  particular  benefit, 
"  that  Lord  Petherton  's  trying  to  wrest  it." 

Mrs.  Brook's  pale  interest  deepened.  "Then  it's 
a  real  hand-to-hand  struggle  ? " 

426 


TISHY  GRENDON 

"He  says  she  shan't  read  it  —  she  says  she  will." 

"Ah  that's  because  —  is  n't  it,  Jane  ?"  Mrs.  Brook 
appealed  —  "he  so  long  overlooked  and  advised  her 
in  those  matters.  Does  n't  he  feel  by  this  time  —  so 
awfully  clever  as  he  is  —  the  extraordinary  way  she 
has  come  out  ? " 

"'By  this  time'?"  Harold  echoed.  "Dearest 
mummy,  you  're  too  sweet.  It 's  only  about  ten  weeks 
—  is  n't  it,  Mitch  ?  You  don't  mind  my  saying  that, 
I  hope,"  he  solicitously  added. 

Mitchy  had  his  back  to  him  and,  bending  it  a  little, 
sat  with  head  dropped  and  knees  pressing  his  hands 
together.  "  I  don't  mind  any  one's  saying  anything." 

"  Lord,  are  you  already  past  that  ? "  Harold  sociably 
laughed. 

"He  used  to  vibrate  to  everything.  My  dear  man, 
what  is  the  matter  ? "  Mrs.  Brook  demanded.  "  Does 
it  all  move  too  fast  for  you  ? " 

"  Mercy  on  us,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  That's 
what  /  want  to  know!"  Mr.  Cashmore  vivaciously 
declared. 

"Well,  she  has  gone  at  a  pace  —  if  Mitchy  does  n't 
mind,"  Harold  interposed  in  the  tone  of  tact  and 
taste.  "  But  then  don't  they  always  —  I  mean  when 
they're  like  Aggie  and  they  once  get  loose  —  go  at  a 
pace  ?  That's  what  /  want  to  know.  I  don't  suppose 
mother  did,  nor  Tishy,  nor  the  Duchess,"  he  com 
municated  to  the  rest;  "but  mother  and  Tishy  and 
the  Duchess,  it  strikes  me,  must  either  have  been  of 
the  school  that  knew,  don't  you  know  ?  a  deuce 
of  a  deal  before,  or  of  the  type  that  takes  it  all  more 
quietly  after." 

427 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  think  a  woman  can  only  speak  for  herself.  7 
took  it  all  quietly  enough  both  before  and  after,"  said 
Mrs.  Brook.  Then  she  addressed  to  Mr.  Cashmore 
with  a  small  formal  nod  one  of  her  lovely  wan  smiles. 
"What  I'm  talking  about,  s'il  vous  plait,  is  marri- 
age." 

"I  wonder  if  you  know,"  the  Duchess  broke  out  on 
this,  "  how  silly  you  all  sound !  When  did  it  ever,  in 
any  society  that  could  call  itself  decently  'good,'  not 
make  a  difference  that  an  innocent  young  creature, 
a  flower  tended  and  guarded,  should  find  from  one 
day  to  the  other  her  whole  consciousness  changed  ? 
People  pull  long  faces  and  look  wonderful  looks  and 
punch  each  other,  in  your  English  fashion,  in  the 
sides,  and  say  to  each  other  in  corners  that  my  poor 
darling  has  'come  out/  Je  crois  bien,  she  has  come 
out !  I  married  her  —  I  don't  mind  saying  it  now 
— exactly  that  she  should  come  out,  and  I  should 
be  mightily  ashamed  of  every  one  concerned  if  she 
had  n't.  I  did  n't  marry  her,  I  give  you  to  believe, 
that  she  should  stay  'in/  and  if  any  of  you  think  to 
frighten  Mitchy  with  it  I  imagine  you'll  do  so  as 
little  as  you  frighten  me.  If  it  has  taken  her  a  very 
short  time  —  as  Harold  so  vividly  puts  it  —  to  which 
of  you  did  I  ever  pretend,  I  should  like  to  know,  that 
it  would  take  her  a  very  long  one  ?  I  dare  say  there 
are  girls  it  would  have  taken  longer,  just  as  there  are 
certainly  others  who  would  n't  have  required  so  much 
as  an  hour.  It  surely  is  n't  news  to  you  that  if  some 
young  persons  among  us  all  are  very  stupid  and  others 
very  wise,  my  dear  child  was  never  either,  but  only 
perfectly  bred  and  deliciously  clever.  Ah  that  — 

428 


TISHY  GRENDON 

rather !  If  she 's  so  clever  that  you  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  her  it's  scarcely  her  fault.  But  add  to  it 
that  Mitchy's  very  kind,  and  you  have  the  whole 
thing.  What  more  do  you  want  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook,  who  looked  immensely  struck,  replied 
with  the  promptest  sympathy,  yet  as  if  there  might 
have  been  an  alternative.  "  I  don't  think  "  —  and  her 
eyes  appealed  to  the  others  —  "that  we  want  any 
more,  do  we  ?  than  the  whole  thing." 

"Gracious,  I  should  hope  not!"  her  husband 
remarked  as  privately  as  before  to  Vanderbank. 
"  Jane  —  for  a  mixed  company  —  does  go  into  it." 

Vanderbank,  for  a  minute  and  with  a  special  short 
arrest,  took  in  the  circle.  "  Should  you  call  us '  mixed '  r 
There's  only  one  girl." 

Edward  Brookenham  glanced  at  his  daughter. 
"Yes,  but  I  wish  there  were  more." 

"Do  you  ?"  And  Vanderbank's  laugh  at  this  odd 
view  covered,  for  a  little,  the  rest  of  the  talk.  But 
when  he  again  began  to  follow  no  victory  had  yet 
been  snatched. 

It  was  Mrs.  Brook  naturally  who  rattled  the 
standard.  "When  you  say,  dearest,  that  we  don't 
know  what  to  'do'  with  Aggie's  cleverness,  do  you 
quite  allow  for  the  way  we  bow  down  before  it  and 
worship  it  ?  I  don't  quite  see  what  else  we  —  in  here 
—  can  do  with  it,  even  though  we  have  gathered  that, 
just  over  there,  Petherton  's  finding  for  it  a  different 
application.  We  can  only  each  in  our  way  do  our 
best.  Don't  therefore  succumb,  Jane,  to  the  delusive 
charm  of  a  grievance.  There  would  be  nothing  in  it. 
You  have  n't  got  one.  The  beauty  of  the  life  that  so 

429 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

many  of  us  have  so  long  led  together"  —  and  she 
showed  that  it  was  for  Mr.  Longdon  she  more  par 
ticularly  brought  this  out  —  "  is  precisely  that  no 
body  has  ever  had  one.  Nobody  has  dreamed  of  it  — 
it  would  have  been  such  a  rough  false  note,  a  note  of 
violence  out  of  all  keeping.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  one, 
Van  ?  Did  you,  my  poor  Mitchy  ?  But  you  see  for 
yourselves,"  she  wound  up  with  a  sigh  and  before 
either  could  answer,  "how  inferior  we've  become 
when  we  have  even  in  our  defence  to  assert  such 
things." 

Mitchy,  who  for  a  while  past  had  sat  gazing  at  the 
floor,  now  raised  his  good  natural  goggles  and 
stretched  his  closed  mouth  to  its  widest.  "Oh  I 
think  we're  pretty  good  still!"  he  then  replied. 

Mrs.  Brook  indeed  appeared,  after  a  pause  and 
addressing  herself  again  to  Tishy,  to  give  a  reluctant 
illustration  of  it,  coming  back  as  from  an  excursion  of 
the  shortest  to  the  question  momentarily  dropped. 
"  I  'm  bound  to  say  —  all  the  more  you  know  —  that 
I  don't  quite  see  what  Aggie  may  n't  now  read." 
Suddenly,  however,  her  look  at  their  informant  took 
on  an  anxiety.  "  Is  the  book  you  speak  of  something 
very  awful  ? " 

Mrs.  Grendon,  with  so  much  these  past  minutes 
to  have  made  her  so,  was  at  last  visibly  more  present. 
"That's  what  Lord  Petherton  says  of  it.  From  what 
he  knows  of  the  author." 

"  So  that  he  wants  to  keep  her  —  ? " 

"Well,  from  trying  it  first.  I  think  he  wants  to  see 
if  it 's  good  for  her." 

"  That 's  one  of  the  most  charming  soins,  I  think," 

43° 


TISHY  GRENDON 

the  Duchess  said,  "that  a  gentleman  may  render  a 
young  woman  to  whom  he  desires  to  be  useful.  I 
won't  say  that  Petherton  always  knows  how  good  a 
book  may  be,  but  I  'd  trust  him  any  day  to  say  how 
bad." 

Mr.  Longdon,  who  had  sat  throughout  silent  and 
still,  quitted  his  seat  at  this  and  evidently  in  so  doing 
gave  Mrs.  Brook  as  much  occasion  as  she  required. 
She  also  got  up  and  her  movement  brought  to  her 
view  at  the  door  of  the  further  room  something  that 
drew  from  her  a  quick  exclamation.  "  He  can  tell  us 
now  then  —  for  here  they  come ! "  Lord  Petherton, 
arriving  with  animation  and  followed  so  swiftly  by 
his  young  companion  that  she  presented  herself  as 
pursuing  him,  shook  triumphantly  over  his  head  a 
small  volume  in  blue  paper.  There  was  a  general 
movement  at  the  sight  of  them,  and  by  the  time  they 
had  rejoined  their  friends  the  company,  pushing  back 
seats  and  causing  a  variety  of  mute  expression 
smoothly  to  circulate,  was  pretty  well  on  its  feet. 
"See  —  he  has  pulled  her  off!"  said  Mrs.  Brook. 

Little  Aggie,  to  whom  plenty  of  pearls  were  sin 
gularly  becoming,  met  it  as  pleasant  sympathy. 
"Yes,  and  it  was  a  real  pull.  But  of  course,"  she 
continued  with  the  prettiest  humour  and  as  if  Mrs. 
Brook  would  quite  understand,  "from  the  moment 
one  has  a  person's  nails,  and  almost  his  teeth,  in 
one's  flesh— !" 

Mrs.  Brook's  sympathy  passed,  however,  with  no 
great  ease  from  Aggie's  pearls  to  her  other  charms; 
fixing  the  former  indeed  so  markedly  that  Harold  had 
a  quick  word  about  it  for  Lady  Fanny.  "When  poor 

431 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

mummy  thinks,  you  know,  that  Nanda  might  have 
had  them— !" 

Lady  Fanny's  attention,  for  that  matter,  had 
resisted  them  as  little.  "Well,  I  dare  say  that  if  I  had 
wanted  /  might!" 

"  Lord  —  could  you  have  stood  him  ? "  the  young 
man  returned.  "  But  I  believe  women  can  stand  any 
thing  ! "  he  profoundly  concluded.  His  mother  mean 
while,  recovering  herself,  had  begun  to  ejaculate  on 
the  prints  in  Aggie's  arms,  and  he  was  then  diverted 
from  the  sense  of  what  he  "  personally,"  as  he  would 
have  said,  could  n't  have  stood,  by  a  glance  at  Lord 
Petherton's  trophy,  for  which  he  made  a  prompt 
grab.  "The  bone  of  contention  ?"  Lord  Petherton 
had  let  it  go  and  Harold  remained  arrested  by  the 
cover.  "Why  blest  if  it  has  n't  Van's  name!" 

"Van's?"  —  his  mother  was  near  enough  to  ef 
fect  her  own  snatch,  after  which  she  swiftly  faced  the 
proprietor  of  the  volume.  "Dear  man,  it's  the  last 
thing  you  lent  me !  But  I  don't  think,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Tishy,  "  that  I  ever  passed  such  a  produc 
tion  on  to  jyoM." 

"It  was  just  seeing  Mr.  Van's  hand,"  Aggie  con 
scientiously  explained,  "that  made  me  think  one  was 
free—!" 

"But  it  isn't  Mr.  Van's  hand!"  —  Mrs.  Brook 
quite  smiled  at  the  error.  She  thrust  the  book  straight 
at  Mr.  Longdon.  "Is  that  Mr.  Van's  hand?" 

Holding  the  disputed  object,  which  he  had  put  on 
his  nippers  to  glance  at,  he  presently,  without  speak 
ing,  looked  over  these  aids  straight  at  Nanda,  who 
looked  as  straight  back  at  him.  "  It  was  I  who  wrote 

432 


TISHY  GRENDON 

Mr.  Van's  name."  The  girl's  eyes  were  on  Mr.  Long- 
don,  but  her  words  as  for  the  company.  "  I  brought 
the  book  here  from  Buckingham  Crescent  and  left  it 
by  accident  in  the  other  room." 

"  By  accident,  my  dear,"  her  mother  replied,  "  I  do 
quite  hope.  But  what  on  earth  did  you  bring  it  for  ? 
It's  too  hideous." 

Nanda  seemed  to  wonder.  "  Is  it  ? "  she  murmured. 

"Then  you  have  n't  read  it  ?" 

She  just  hesitated.  "One  hardly  knows  now,  I 
think,  what  is  and  what  is  n't." 

"  She  brought  it  only  for  me  to  read,"  Tishy  gravely 
interposed. 

Mrs.  Brook  looked  strange.  "Nanda  recommended 
it?" 

"Oh  no  —  the  contrary."  Tishy,  as  if  scared  by 
so  much  publicity,  floundered  a  little.  "  She  only  told 
me—" 

"The  awful  subject?"  Mrs.  Brook  wailed. 

There  was  so  deepening  an  echo  of  the  drollery  of 
this  last  passage  that  it  was  a  minute  before  Vander- 
bank  could  be  heard  saying:  "The  responsibility's 
wholly  mine  for  setting  the  beastly  thing  in  motion. 
Still,"  he  added  good-humouredly  and  as  to  minimise 
if  not  the  cause  at  least  the  consequence,  "I  think 
I  agree  with  Nanda  that  it 's  no  worse  than  anything 
else." 

Mrs.  Brook  had  recovered  the  volume  from  Mr. 
Longdon's  relaxed  hand  and  now,  without  another 
glance  at  it,  held  it  behind  her  with  an  unusual  air  of 
firmness.  "  Oh  how  can  you  say  that,  my  dear  man, 
of  anything  so  revolting  ? " 

433 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

The  discussion  kept  them  for  the  instant  well  face 
to  face.  "Then  did  you  read  it?" 

She  debated,  jerking  the  book  into  the  nearest 
empty  chair,  where  Mr.  Cashmore  quickly  pounced 
on  it.  "Was  n't  it  for  that  you  brought  it  me  ?"  she 
demanded.  Yet  before  he  could  answer  she  again 
challenged  her  child.  "Have  you  read  this  work, 
Nanda?" 

"Yes  mamma." 

"Oh  I  say!"  cried  Mr.  Cashmore,  hilarious  and 
turning  the  leaves. 

Mr.  Longdon  had  by  this  time  ceremoniously  ap 
proached  Tishy.  "Good-night." 


BOOK  NINTH 
VANDERBANK 


"  I  THINK  then  you  had  better  wait,"  Mrs.  Brook  said, 
"till  I  see  if  he  has  gone;"  and  on  the  arrival  the  next 
moment  of  the  servants  with  the  tea  she  was  able  to 
put  her  question.  "Is  Mr.  Cashmore  still  with  Miss 
Brookenham  ? " 

"No,  ma'am,"  the  footman  replied.  "I  let  Mr. 
Cashmore  out  five  minutes  ago." 

Vanderbank  showed  for  the  next  short  time  by  his 
behaviour  what  he  felt  at  not  yet  being  free  to  act  on 
this;  moving  pointlessly  about  the  room  while  the 
servants  arranged  the  tea-table  and  taking  no  trouble 
to  make,  for  appearance,  any  other  talk.  Mrs.  Brook, 
on  her  side,  took  so  little  that  the  silence  —  which 
their  temporary  companions  had  all  the  effect  of 
keeping  up  by  conscious  dawdling  —  became  precisely 
one  of  those  precious  lights  for  the  circle  belowstairs 
which  people  fondly  fancy  they  have  not  kindled 
when  they  have  not  spoken.  But  Vanderbank  spoke 
again  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed.  "Does  he 
run  in  and  out  that  way  without  even  speaking  to 
you?" 

Mrs.  Brook  turned  away  from  the  fire  that,  late  in 
May,  was  the  only  charm  of  the  crude  cold  afternoon. 
"One  would  like  to  draw  the  curtains,  would  n't  one  ? 
and  gossip  in  the  glow  of  the  hearth." 

"Oh  'gossip'!"  Vanderbank  wearily  said  as  he 
came  to  her  pretty  table. 

437 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

In  the  act  of  serving  him  she  checked  herself.  "You 
would  n't  rather  have  it  with  her?" 

He  balanced  a  moment.  "  Does  she  have  a  tea  of 
her  own  ? " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  ? "  —  Mrs. 
Brook  asked  it  with  surprise.  "Such  ignorance  of 
what  I  do  for  her  does  tell,  I  think,  the  tale  of  how 
you've  lately  treated  us." 

"  In  not  coming  for  so  long  ? " 

"For  more  weeks,  for  more  months  than  I  can 
count.  Scarcely  since  —  when  was  it  ?  —  the  end  of 
January,  that  night  of  Tishy's  dinner." 

"Yes,  that  awful  night." 

"Awful,  you  call  it?" 

"Awful." 

"  Well,  the  time  without  you,"  Mrs.  Brook  returned, 
"has  been  so  bad  that  I'm  afraid  I've  lost  the  im 
pression  of  anything  before."  Then  she  offered  the 
tea  to  his  choice.  "  Will  you  have  it  upstairs  ?" 

He  received  the  cup.  "Yes,  and  here  too."  After 
which  he  said  nothing  again  till,  first  pouring  in  milk 
to  cool  it,  he  had  drunk  his  tea  down.  "That's  not 
literally  true,  you  know.  I  have  been  in." 

"Yes,  but  always  with  other  people  —  you  managed 
it  somehow;  the  wrong  ones.  It  has  n't  counted." 

"Ah  in  one  way  and  another  I  think  everything 
counts.  And  you  forget  I've  dined." 

"Oh  — for  once!" 

"The  once  you  asked  me.  So  don't  spoil  the 
beauty  of  your  own  behaviour  by  mistimed  reflexions. 
You've  been,  as  usual,  superior." 

"Ah  but  there  has  been  no  beauty  in  it.  There  has 
438 


VANDERBANK 

been  nothing,"  Mrs.  Brook  went  on,  "but  bare  bleak 
recognition,  the  curse  of  my  hideous  intelligence. 
We've  fallen  to  pieces,  and  at  least  I'm  not  such  a 
fool  as  not  to  have  felt  it  in  time.  From  the  moment 
one  did  feel  it  why  should  one  insist  on  vain  forms  ? 
If  you  felt  it,  and  were  so  ready  to  drop  them,  my 
part  was  what  it  has  always  been  —  to  accept  the 
inevitable.  We  shall  never  grow  together  again.  The 
smash  was  too  great." 

Vanderbank  for  a  little  said  nothing;  then  at  last: 
"You  ought  to  know  how  great!" 

Whatever  had  happened  her  lovely  look  here  sur 
vived  it.  "I?" 

"The  smash,"  he  replied,  "was  indeed  as  complete, 
I  think,  as  your  intention.  Each  of  the  '  pieces '  testi 
fies  to  your  success.  Five  minutes  did  it." 

She  appeared  to  wonder  where  he  was  going.  "  But 
surely  not  my  minutes.  Where  have  you  discovered 
that  I  made  Mitchy's  marriage?" 

"Mitchy's  marriage  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"I  see."  She  had  the  old  interest  at  least  still  at 
their  service.  "You  think  we  might  have  survived 
that."  A  new  thought  of  it  seemed  to  glimmer.  "  I  'm 
bound  to  say  Mitchy's  marriage  promises  elements." 

"You  did  it  that  night  at  Mrs.  Grendon's."  He 
spoke  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her.  "  It  was  a  wonderful 
performance.  You  pulled  us  down  —  just  closing 
with  each  of  the  great  columns  in  its  turn  —  as  Sam 
son  pulled  down  the  temple.  I  was  at  the  time  more  or 
less  bruised  and  buried  and  did  n't  in  the  agitation 
and  confusion  fully  understand  what  had  happened. 
But  I  understand  now." 

439 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Are  you  very  sure  ?"  Mrs.  Brook  earnestly  asked. 

"Well,  I'm  stupid  compared  with  you,  but  you 
see  I  've  taken  my  time.  I  've  puzzled  it  out.  I  've 
lain  awake  on  it:  all  the  more  that  I  've  had  to  do  it 
all  myself  —  with  the  Mitchys  in  Italy  and  Greece. 
I  've  missed  his  aid." 

"You'll  have  it  now,"  Mrs.  Brook  kindly  said. 
"They're  coming  back." 

"And  when  do  they  arrive?" 

"Any  day,  I  believe." 

"  Has  he  written  you  ? " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  —  "there  it  is.  That's  just 
the  way  we've  fallen  to  pieces.  But  you'll  of  course 
have  heard  something." 

"Never  a  word." 

"Ah  then  it's  complete." 

Vanderbank  thought  a  moment.  "Not  quite,  is  it  ? 
—  I  mean  it  won't  be  altogether  unless  he  has  n't 
written  to  Nanda." 

"Then  has  he  ?"  —  she  was  keen  again. 

"Oh  I'm  assuming.    Don't  you  know?" 

"How  should  I?" 

This  too  he  turned  over.  "  Just  as  a  consequence 
of  your  having,  at  Tishy's,  so  abruptly  and  won 
derfully  tackled  the  question  that  a  few  days  later, 
as  I  afterwards  gathered,  was  to  be  crowned  with 
a  measure  of  success  not  yet  exhausted.  Why,  in 
other  words  —  if  it  was  to  know  so  little  about  her 
and  to  get  no  nearer  to  her  —  did  you  bring  about 
Nanda's  return  ? " 

There  was  a  clear  reason,  her  face  said,  if  she  could 
only  remember  it.  "  Why  did  I  —  ? "  Then  as  catch- 

440 


VANDERBANK 

ing  a  light:   "Fancy  your  asking  me  —  at  this  time 
of  day!" 

"  Ah  you  have  noticed  that  I  have  n't  asked  be 
fore  ?  However,"  Van  promptly  added,  "  I  know  well 
enough  what  you  notice.  Nanda  has  n't  mentioned 
to  you  whether  or  no  she  has  heard  ? " 

"Absolutely  not.  But  you  don't  suppose,  I  take  it, 
that  it  was  to  pry  into  her  affairs  I  called  her  in." 

Vanderbank,  on  this,  lighted  for  the  first  time  with 
a  laugh.  "'Called  her  in'  ?  How  I  like  your  expres 
sions!" 

"  I  do  then,  in  spite  of  all,"  she  eagerly  asked,  "  re 
mind  you  a  little  of  the  bon  temps  ?  Ah,"  she  sighed, 
"  I  don't  say  anything  good  now.  But  of  course  I  see 
Jane  —  though  not  so  often  either.  It 's  from  Jane 
I've  heard  of  what  she  calls  her  'young  things.'  It 
seems  so  odd  to  think  of  Mitchy  as  a  young  thing. 
He 's  as  old  as  all  time,  and  his  wife,  who  the  other 
day  was  about  six,  is  now  practically  about  forty. 
And  I  also  saw  Petherton,"  Mrs.  Brook  added,  "on 
his  return." 

"  His  return  from  where  ? " 

"Why  he  was  with  them  at  Corfu,  Malta,  Cyprus 
—  I  don't  know  where ;  yachting,  spending  Mitchy's 
money,  *  larking,'  he  called  it  —  I  don't  know  what. 
He  was  with  them  for  weeks." 

"Till  Jane,  you  mean,  called  him  in?" 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  that." 

"Well,  that's  better,"  said  Van,  "than  if  Mitchy 
had  had  to  call  him  out." 

"  Oh  Mitchy  — ! "  Mrs.  Brook  comprehensively 
sounded. 

441 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Her  visitor  quite  assented.  "Isn't  he  amaz- 
ing?" 

"Unique." 

He  had  a  short  pause.    "But  what's  she  up  to?" 

It  was  apparently  for  Mrs.  Brook  a  question  of  such 
variety  of  application  that  she  brought  out  experi 
mentally:  "Jane?" 

"  Dear  no.  I  think  we  've  fathomed  '  Jane,'  have  n't 
we?" 

"  Well,"  mused  Mrs.  Brook,  "  I  'm  by  no  means 
sure  /  have.  Just  of  late  I  've  had  a  new  sense !  " 

"Yes,  of  what  now  ?"  Van  amusedly  put  it  as  she 
held  the  note. 

"Oh  of  depths  below  depths.  But  poor  Jane  —  of 
course  after  all  she's  human.  She's  beside  herself 
with  one  thing  and  another,  but  she  can't  in  any 
consistency  show  it.  She  took  her  stand  so  on  having 
with  Petherton's  aid  formed  Aggie  for  a  femme 
charmante  — ! " 

"That  it's  too  late  to  cry  out  that  Petherton's  aid 
can  now  be  dispensed  with  ?  Do  you  mean  then  that 
he  is  such  a  brute  that  after  all  Mitchy  has  done  for 
him  —  ?"  Vanderbank,  at  the  rising  image,  pulled  up 
in  easy  disgust. 

"I  think  him  quite  capable  of  considering  with  a 
magnificent  insolence  of  selfishness  that  what  Mitchy 
has  most  done  will  have  been  to  make  Aggie  accessible 
in  a  way  that  —  for  decency  and  delicacy  of  course, 
things  on  which  Petherton  highly  prides  himself  — 
she  could  naturally  not  be  as  a  girl.  Her  marriage  has 
simplified  it." 

Vanderbank  took  it  all  in.  "'Accessible'  is  good! 
442 


VANDERBANK 

Then  —  which  was  what  I   intended  just  now  — 
Aggie  has  already  become  so  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook,  however,  could  as  yet  in  fairness  only 
wonder.  "That's  just  what  I'm  dying  to  see." 

Her  companion  smiled  at  it.  "'Even  in  our  ashes 
live  their  wonted  fires ' !  But  what  do  you  make,  in 
such  a  box,  of  poor  Mitchy  himself?  His  marriage  can 
scarcely  to  such  an  extent  have  simplified  him." 

It  was  something,  none  the  less,  that  Mrs.  Brook 
had  to  weigh.  "I  don't  know.  I  give  it  up.  The  thing 
was  of  a  strangeness ! " 

Her  friend  also  paused,  and  it  was  as  if  for  a  little, 
on  either  side  of  a  gate  on  which  they  might  have  had 
their  elbows,  they  remained  looking  at  each  other 
over  it  and  over  what  was  unsaid  between  them.  "It 
was  'rum'!"  he  at  last  merely  dropped. 

It  was  scarce  for  Mrs.  Brook,  all  the  same  —  she 
seemed  to  feel  after  a  moment  —  to  surround  the  mat 
ter  with  an  excess  of  silence.  "He  did  what  a  man 
does — especially  in  that  business — when  he  does  n't 
do  what  he  wants." 

"  Do  you  mean  what  somebody  else  wanted  ? " 

"Well,  what  he  himself  didn't.  And  if  he's  un 
happy,"  she  went  on, "  he  '11  knowwhom  to  pitch  into." 

"Ah,"  said  Vanderbank,  "even  if  he  is  he  won't  be 
the  man  to  what  you  might  call '  vent '  it  on  her.  He  '11 
seek  compensations  elsewhere  and  won't  mind  any 
ridicule  — !" 

"Whom  are  you  speaking  of  as  'her'?"  Mrs. 
Brook  asked  as  on  feeling  that  something  in  her  face 
had  made  him  stop.  "  I  was  n't  referring,"  she  ex 
plained,  "to  his  wife." 

443 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

"Oh! "said  Vanderbank. 

"Aggie  does  n't  matter,"  she  went  on. 

"Oh!"  he  repeated.  "You  meant  the  Duchess  ?" 
he  then  threw  off. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  she  rejoined.  "He  may  not 
become  unhappy  —  God  grant  not!"  she  developed. 
"But  if  he  does  he'll  take  it  out  of  Nanda." 

Van  appeared  to  challenge  this.  "'Take  it  out'  of 
her?" 

"Well,  want  to  know,  as  some  American  asked  me 
the  other  day  of  somebody,  what  she's  *  going  to  do' 
about  it." 

Vanderbank,  who  had  remained  on  his  feet,  stood 
still  at  this  for  a  longer  time  than  at  anything  yet. 
"But  what  can  she  'do'  —  ?" 

"That's  again  just  what  I  'm  curious  to  see."  Mrs. 
Brook  then  spoke  with  a  glance  at  the  clock.  "But 
if  you  don't  go  up  to  her  — ! " 

"My  notion  of  seeing  her  alone  may  be  defeated 
by  her  coming  down  on  learning  that  I  'm  here  ? " 
He  had  taken  out  his  watch.  "I'll  go  in  a  moment. 
But,  as  a  light  on  that  danger,  would  you,  in  the  cir 
cumstances,  come  down?" 

Mrs.  Brook,  however,  could  for  light  only  look 
darkness.  "Oh  you  don't  love  me  J " 

Vanderbank,  still  with  his  watch,  stared  then  as 
an  alternative  at  the  fire.  "You  haven't  yet  told 
me  you  know,  if  Mr.  Cashmore  now  comes  every 
day." 

"My  dear  man,  how  can  I  say  ?  You've  just  your 
occasion  to  find  out." 

"  From  her,  you  mean  ? " 
444 


VANDERBANK 

Mrs.  Brook  hesitated.  "Unless  you  prefer  the  foot 
man.  Must  I  again  remind  you  that,  with  her  own 
sitting-room  and  one  of  the  men,  in  addition  to 
her  maid,  wholly  at  her  orders,  her  independence  is 
ideal?" 

Vanderbank,  who  appeared  to  have  been  timing 
himself,  put  up  his  watch.  "I'm  bound  to  say  then 
that  with  separations  so  established  I  understand  less 
than  ever  your  unforgettable  explosion." 

"Ah  you  come  back  to  that?"  she  wearily  asked. 
"And  you  find  it,  with  all  you've  to  think  about, 
unforgettable  ? " 

"Oh  but  there  was  a  wild  light  in  your  eye  — !" 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Brook  said,  "you  see  it  now  quite 
gone  out."  She  had  spoken  more  sadly  than  sharply, 
but  her  impatience  had  the  next  moment  a  flicker. 
"  I  called  Nanda  in  because  I  wanted  to." 

"Precisely;  but  what  I  don't  make  out,  you  see,  is 
what  you've  since  gained  by  it." 

"You  mean  she  only  hates  me  the  more  ?" 

Van's  impatience,  in  the  movement  with  which 
he  turned  from  her,  had  a  flare  still  sharper.  "You 
know  I'm  incapable  of  meaning  anything  of  the 
sort." 

She  waited  a  minute  while  his  back  was  presented. 
"I  sometimes  think  in  effect  that  you're  incapable 
of  anything  straightforward." 

Vanderbank's  movement  had  not  been  to  the  door, 
but  he  almost  reached  it  after  giving  her,  on  this,  a 
hard  look.  He  then  stopped  short,  however,  to  stare 
an  instant  still  more  fixedly  into  the  hat  he  held  in  his 
hand ;  the  consequence  of  which  in  turn  was  that  he 

445 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

the  next  minute  stood  again  before  her  chair.  "  Don't 
you  call  it  straightforward  of  me  just  not  to  have  come 
for  so  long  ?" 

She  had  again  to  take  time  to  say.  "Is  that  an 
allusion  to  what  —  by  the  loss  of  your  beautiful  pre 
sence  —  I  've  failed  to  *  gain '  ?  I  dare  say  at  any 
rate  "  —  she  gave  him  no  time  to  reply  —  "  that  you 
feel  you're  quite  as  straightforward  as  I  and  that 
we  're  neither  of  us  creatures  of  mere  rash  impulse. 
There  was  a  time  in  fact,  was  n't  there  ?  when  we 
rather  enjoyed  each  other's  dim  depths.  If  I  wanted 
to  fawn  on  you,"  she  went  on,  "I  might  say  that, 
with  such  a  comrade  in  obliquity  to  wind  and  double 
about  with,  I  'd  risk  losing  myself  in  the  mine.  But 
why  retort  or  recriminate  ?  Let  us  not,  for  God's 
sake,  be  vulgar  —  we  have  n't  yet,  bad  as  it  is,  come 
to  that.  I  can  be,  no  doubt  —  I  some  day  must  be : 
I  feel  it  looming  at  me  out  of  the  awful  future  as  an 
inevitable  fate.  But  let  it  be  for  when  I'm  old  and 
horrible;  not  an  hour  before.  I  do  want  to  live  a 
little  even  yet.  So  you  ought  to  let  me  off  easily  — 
even  as  I  let  you." 

"Oh  I  know,"  said  Vanderbank  handsomely, 
"that  there  are  things  you  don't  put  to  me!  You 
show  a  tact!" 

"There  it  is.  And  I  like  much  better,"  Mrs.  Brook 
went  on,  "our  speaking  of  it  as  delicacy  than  as 
duplicity.  If  you  understand,  it's  so  much  saved." 

"What  I  always  understand  more  than  anything 
else,"  he  returned,  "is  the  general  truth  that  you're 
prodigious." 

It  was  perhaps  a  little  as  relapse  from  tension  that 
446 


VANDERBANK 

she  had  nothing  against  that.  "  As  for  instance  when 
it  would  be  so  easy  — ! " 

"Yes,  to  take  up  what  lies  there,  you  yet  so  splen 
didly  abstain." 

"You  literally  press  upon  me  my  opportunity? 
It's  you  who  are  splendid!"  she  rather  strangely 
laughed. 

"Don't  you  at  least  want  to  say,"  he  went  on 
with  a  slight  flush,  "what  you  most  obviously  and 
naturally  might?" 

Appealed  to  on  the  question  of  underlying  desire, 
Mrs.  Brook  went  through  the  decent  form  of  appear 
ing  to  try  to  give  it  the  benefit  of  any  doubt.  "  Don't 
I  want,  you  mean,  to  find  out  before  you  go  up  what 
you  want  ?  Shall  you  be  too  disappointed,"  she 
asked,  "if  I  say  that,  since  I  shall  probably  learn, 
as  we  used  to  be  told  as  children,  'all  in  good  time,' 
I  can  wait  till  the  light  comes  out  of  itself  ? " 

Vanderbank  still  lingered.    "You  are  deep!" 

"You've  only  to  be  deeper." 

"That's  easy  to  say.  I'm  afraid  at  any  rate  you 
won't  think  I  am,"  he  pursued  after  a  pause,  "if  I 
ask  you  what  in  the  world  —  since  Harold  does  keep 
Lady  Fanny  so  quiet  —  Cashmore  still  requires 
Nanda's  direction  for." 

"Ah  find  out!"  said  Mrs.  Brook. 

"Is  n't  Mrs.  Donner  quite  shelved  ?" 

"Find  out,"  she  repeated. 

Vanderbank  had  reached  the  door  and  had  his 
hand  on  the  latch,  but  there  was  still  something  else. 
"You  scarce  suppose,  I  imagine,  that  she  has  come 
to  like  him  'for  himself  ?" 

447 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"  Find  out ! "  And  Mrs.  Brook,  who  was  now  on  her 
feet,  turned  away. 

He  watched  her  a  moment  more,  then  checked 
himself  and  left  her. 


II 


SHE  remained  alone  ten  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which 
her  reflexions  —  they  would  have  been  seen  to  be 
deep  —  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  her  hus 
band.  The  interruption  was  indeed  not  so  great  as 
if  the  couple  had  not  met,  as  they  almost  invariably 
met,  in  silence:  she  took  at  all  events,  to  begin  with, 
no  more  account  of  his  presence  than  to  hand  him 
a  cup  of  tea  accompanied  with  nothing  but  cream  and 
sugar.  Her  having  no  word  for  him,  however,  com 
mitted  her  no  more  to  implying  that  he  had  come 
in  only  for  his  refreshment  than  it  would  have  com 
mitted  her  to  say:  "Here  it  is,  Edward  dear — just 
as  you  like  it;  so  take  it  and  sit  down  and  be  quiet." 
No  spectator  worth  his  salt  could  have  seen  them 
more  than  a  little  together  without  feeling  how  every 
thing  that,  under  his  eyes  or  not,  she  either  did  or 
omitted,  rested  on  a  profound  acquaintance  with  his 
ways.  They  formed,  Edward's  ways,  a  chapter  by 
themselves,  of  which  Mrs.  Brook  was  completely 
mistress  and  in  respect  to  which  the  only  drawback 
was  that  a  part  of  her  credit  was  by  the  nature  of  the 
case  predestined  to  remain  obscure.  So  many  of 
them  were  so  queer  that  no  one  but  she  could  know 
them,  and  know  thereby  into  what  crannies  her 
reckoning  had  to  penetrate.  It  was  one  of  them  for 
instance  that  if  he  was  often  most  silent  when  most 
primed  with  matter,  so  when  he  had  nothing  to  say 

449 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

he  was  always  silent  too  —  a  peculiarity  misleading, 
until  mastered,  for  a  lady  who  could  have  allowed 
in  the  latter  case  for  almost  any  variety  of  remark. 
'"What  do  you  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "of  his  turning 
up  to-day  ? " 

"Of  old  Van's?" 

"Oh  has  he  turned  up?" 

"Half  an  hour  ago,  and  asking  almost  in  his  first 
breath  for  Nanda.  I  sent  him  up  to  her  and  he's 
with  her  now."  If  Edward  had  his  ways  she  had  also 
some  of  her  own;  one  of  which,  in  talk  with  him,  if 
talk  it  could  be  called,  was  never  to  produce  anything 
till  the  need  was  marked.  She  had  thus  a  card  or  twro 
always  in  reserve,  for  it  was  her  theory  that  she  never 
knew  what  might  happen.  It  nevertheless  did  occur 
that  he  sometimes  went,  as  she  would  have  called  it, 
one  better. 

"He's  not  with  her  now.  I've  just  been  with 
her." 

"Then  he  didn't  go  up?"  Mrs.  Brook  was  im 
mensely  interested.  "He  left  me,  you  know,  to  do 
so." 

"  Know  —  how  should  I  know  ?  I  left  her  five 
minutes  ago." 

"Then  he  went  out  without  seeing  her."  Mrs. 
Brook  took  it  in.  "He  changed  his  mind  out  there 
on  the  stairs." 

"Well,"  said  Edward,  "it  won't  be  the  first  mind 
that  has  been  changed  there.  It's  about  the  only 
thing  a  man  can  change." 

"  Do  you  refer  particularly  to  my  stairs  ? "  she 
asked  with  her  whimsical  woe.  But  meanwhile  she 

45° 


VANDERBANK 

had  taken  it  in.  "Then  whom  were  you  speaking 
of?" 

"  Mr.  Longdon  's  coming  to  tea  with  her.  She  has 
had  a  note." 

"  But  when  did  he  come  to  town  ? " 

"  Last  night,  I  believe.  The  note,  an  hour  or  two 
ago,  announced  him  —  brought  by  hand  and  hoping 
she  'd  be  at  home." 

Mrs.  Brook  thought  again.  "  I  'm  glad  she  is.  He 's 
too  sweet.  By  hand !  —  it  must  have  been  so  he  sent 
them  to  mamma.  He  would  n't  for  the  world  wire." 

"Oh  Nanda  has  often  wired  to  him"  her  father 
returned. 

"Then  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself.  But 
how,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "do  you  know?" 

"  Oh  I  know  when  we  're  in  a  thing  like  this." 

"Yet  you  complain  of  her  want  of  intimacy  with 
you!  It  turns  out  that  you're  as  thick  as  thieves." 

Edward  looked  at  this  charge  as  he  looked  at  all 
old  friends,  without  a  sign  —  to  call  a  sign  —  of  re 
cognition.  "I  don't  know  of  whose  want  of  intimacy 
with  me  I  've  ever  complained.  There  is  n't  much 
more  of  it,  that  I  can  see,  that  any  of  them  could  put 
on.  What  do  you  suppose  I  'd  have  them  do  ?  If  I  on 
my  side  don't  get  very  far  I  may  have  alluded  to 
that." 

"Oh  but  you  do,"  Mrs.  Brook  declared.  "You 
think  you  don't,  but  you  get  very  far  indeed.  You're 
always,  as  I  said  just  now,  bringing  out  something 
that  you've  got  somewhere." 

"Yes,  and  seeing  you  flare  up  at  it.  What  I  bring 
out  is  only  what  they  tell  me." 

451 


THE  AWKWARD    AGE 

This  limitation  offered,  however,  for  Mrs.  Brook  no 
difficulty.  "Ah  but  it  seems  to  me  that  with  the 
things  people  nowadays  tell  one — !  What  more  do 
you  want  ? " 

"Well"  —  and  Edward  from  his  chair  regarded 
the  fire  a  while  —  "the  difference  must  be  in  what 
they  tell  you" 

"  Things  that  are  better  ? " 

"Yes  —  worse.  I  dare  say,"  he  went  on,  "what 
I  give  them  — " 

"  Is  n't  as  bad  as  what  I  do  ?  Oh  we  must  each  do 
our  best.  But  when  I  hear  from  you,"  Mrs.  Brook 
pursued,  "that  Nanda  had  ever  permitted  herself 
anything  so  dreadful  as  to  wire  to  him,  it  comes  over 
me  afresh  that  7  would  have  been  the  perfect  one  to 
deal  with  him  if  his  detestation  of  me  had  n't  pre 
vented."  She  was  by  this  time  also  —  but  on  her 
feet  —  before  the  fire,  into  which,  like  her  husband, 
she  gazed.  "/  would  never  have  wired.  I'd  have 
gone  in  for  little  delicacies  and  odd  things  she  has 
never  thought  of." 

"Oh  she  does  n't  go  in  for  what  you  do,"  Edward 
assented. 

"She's  as  bleak  as  a  chimney-top  when  the  fire's 
out,  and  if  it  had  n't  been  after  all  for  mamma  — ! " 
And  she  lost  herself  again  in  the  reasons  of  things. 

Her  husband's  silence  seemed  to  mark  for  an 
instant  a  deference  to  her  allusion,  but  there  was 
a  limit  even  to  this  combination.  "You  make  your 
mother,  I  think,  keep  it  up  pretty  well.  But  if  she 
had  n't,  as  you  say,  done  so  —  ? " 

"Why  we  should  n't  have  been  anywhere." 

452 


VANDERBANK 

"  Well,  where  are  we  now  ?  That 's  what  /  want  to 
know." 

Following  her  own  train  she  had  at  first  no  heed  for 
his  question.  "Without  his  hatred  he  would  have 
liked  me."  But  she  came  back  with  a  sigh  to  the 
actual.  "No  matter.  We  must  deal  with  what  we 've 
got." 

"What  have  we  got?"  Edward  continued. 

Again  with  no  ear  for  his  question  his  wife  turned 
away,  only  however,  after  taking  a  few  vague  steps, 
to  approach  him  with  new  decision.  "If  Mr.  Long- 
don  's  due  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  Will  you  go  back 
to  Nanda  —  before  he  arrives  —  and  let  her  know, 
though  not  of  course  as  from  me,  that  Van  has  been 
here  half  an  hour,  has  had  it  put  well  before  him 
that  she's  up  there  and  at  liberty,  and  has  left  the 
house  without  seeing  her  ? " 

Edward  Brookenham  made  no  motion.  "You 
don't  like  better  to  do  it  yourself?" 

"If  I  liked  better,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "I'd  have 
already  done  it.  The  way  to  make  it  not  come  from 
me  is  surely  not  for  me  to  give  it  to  her.  Besides, 
I  want  to  be  here  to  receive  him  first." 

"Then  can't  she  know  it  afterwards  ?" 

"After  Mr.  Longdon  has  gone  ?  The  whole  point 
is  that  she  should  know  it  in  time  to  let  him  know  it." 

Edward  still  communed  with  the  fire.  "And  what's 
the  point  of  that?"  Her  impatience,  which  visibly 
increased,  carried  her  away  again,  and  by  the  time 
she  reached  the  window  he  had  launched  another 
question.  "  Are  you  in  such  a  hurry  she  should  know 
that  Van  does  n't  want  her  ? " 

453 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"What  do  you  call  a  hurry  when  I  've  waited  nearly 
a  year  ?  Nanda  may  know  or  not  as  she  likes  —  may 
know  whenever:  if  she  does  n't  know  pretty  well  by 
this  time  she's  too  stupid  for  it  to  matter.  My  only 
pressure's  for  Mr.  Longdon.  She'll  have  it  there 
for  him  when  he  arrives." 

"You  mean  she'll  make  haste  to  tell  him  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  raised  her  eyes  a  moment  to  some 
upper  immensity.  "She'll  mention  it." 

Her  husband  on  the  other  hand,  his  legs  out 
stretched,  looked  straight  at  the  toes  of  his  boots. 
"Are  you  very  sure  ?"  Then  as  he  remained  without 
an  answer:  "Why  should  she  if  he  hasn't  told  her?" 

"  Of  the  way  I  so  long  ago  let  you  know  that  he  had 
put  the  matter  to  Van  ?  It's  not  out  between  them  in 
words,  no  doubt;  but  I  fancy  that  for  things  to  pass 
they've  not  to  dot  their  i's  quite  so  much,  my  dear, 
as  we  two.  Without  a  syllable  said  to  her  she's  yet 
aware  in  every  fibre  of  her  little  being  of  what  has 
taken  place." 

Edward  gave  a  still  longer  space  to  taking  this  in. 
"Poor  little  thing!" 

"Does  she  strike  you  as  so  poor,"  Mrs.  Brook 
asked,  "with  so  awfully  much  done  for  her?" 

"  Done  by  whom  ? " 

It  was  as  if  she  had  not  heard  the  question  that  she 
spoke  again.  "  She  has  got  what  every  woman,  young 
or  old,  wants." 

"Really?" 

Edward's  tone  was  of  wonder,  but  she  simply  went 
on:  "She  has  got  a  man  of  her  own." 

"Well,  but  if  he's  the  wrong  one  ?" 
454 


VANDERBANK 

"  Do  you  call  Mr.  Longdon  so  very  wrong  ?  I  wish," 
she  declared  with  a  strange  sigh,  "that  /  had  had 
a  Mr.  Longdon  ! " 

"  I  wish  very  much  you  had.  I  would  n't  have  taken 
it  like  Van." 

"Oh  it  took  Van,"  Mrs.  Brook  replied,  "to  put 
them  where  they  are." 

"But  where  are  they  ?  That's  exactly  it.  In  these 
three  months,  for  instance,"  Edward  demanded, 
"how  has  their  connexion  profited  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  turned  it  over.    "Profited  which  ?" 
*  "Well,  one  cares  most  for  one's  child." 

"Then  she  has  become  for  him  what  we've  most 
hoped  her  to  be  —  an  object  of  compassion  still  more 
marked." 

"  Is  that  what  you  've  hoped  her  to  be  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook  was  obviously  so  lucid  for  herself  that 
her  renewed  expression  of  impatience  had  plenty  of 
point.  "  How  can  you  ask  after  seeing  what  I  did  —  " 

"That  night  at  Mrs.  Grendon's  ?  Well,  it's  the 
first  time  I  have  asked  it." 

Mrs.  Brook  had  a  silence  more  pregnant.  "It's  for 
being  with  us  that  he  pities  her." 

Edward  thought.    "With  me  too?" 

"Not  so  much  —  but  still  you  help." 

"I  thought  you  thought  I  did  n't  —  that  night." 

"At  Tishy's  ?  Oh  you  did  n't  matter,"  said  Mrs. 
Brook.  "Everything,  every  one  helps.  Harold  dis 
tinctly" —  she  seemed  to  figure  it  all  out  —  "and 
even  the  poor  children,  I  dare  say,  a  little.  Oh  but 
every  one"  —  she  warmed  to  the  vision  —  "it's  per 
fect.  Jane  immensely,  par  exemple.  Almost  all  the 

455 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

others  who  come  to  the  house.  Cashmore,  Carrie, 
Tishy,  Fanny  —  bless  their  hearts  all !  —  each  in 
their  degree." 

Edward  Brookenham  had  under  the  influence  of 
this  demonstration  gradually  risen  from  his  seat,  and 
as  his  wife  approached  that  part  of  her  process  which 
might  be  expected  to  furnish  the  proof  he  placed  him 
self  before  her  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "  And  Mitchy, 
I  suppose  ? " 

But  he  was  out.    "No.    Mitchy 's  different." 

He  wondered.    "  Different  ? " 

"Not  a  help.  Quite  a  drawback."  Then  as  his 
face  told  how  these  were  involutions,  "  You  need  n't 
understand,  but  you  can  believe  me,"  she  added. 
"The  one  who  does  most  is  of  course  Van  himself." 
It  was  a  statement  by  which  his  failure  to  apprehend 
was  not  diminished,  and  she  completed  her  operation. 
"By  not  liking  her." 

Edward's  gloom,  on  this,  was  not  quite  blankness, 
yet  it  was  dense.  "  Do  you  like  his  not  liking  her  ? " 

"Dear  no.    No  better  than  he  does." 

"And  he  doesn't  —  ?" 

"Oh  he  hates  it." 

"Of  course  I  haven't  asked  him,"  Edward  ap 
peared  to  say  more  to  himself  than  to  his  wife. 

"  And  of  course  /  have  n't,"  she  returned  —  not 
at  all  in  this  case,  plainly,  for  herself.  "But  I  know 
it.  He  'd  like  her  if  he  could,  but  he  can't.  That," 
Mrs.  Brook  wound  up,  "is  what  makes  it  sure." 

There  was  at  last  in  Edward's  gravity  a  positive 
pathos.  "Sure  he  won't  propose  ?" 

"Sure  Mr.  Longdon  won't  now  throw  her  over." 
456 


VANDERBANK 

"Of  course  if  it  is  sure  — " 

"Well?" 

"Why,  it  is.    But  of  course  if  it  is  n't  — " 

"Well?" 

"Why,  she  won't  have  anything.  Anything  but 
MJ,"  he  continued  to  reflect.  "Unless,  you  know, 
you're  working  it  on  a  certainty — !" 

"That's  just  what  I  am  working  it  on.  I  did  no 
thing  till  I  knew  I  was  safe." 

" '  Safe '  ? "  he  ambiguously  echoed  while  on  this  their 
eyes  met  longer. 

"Safe.    I  knew  he'd  stick." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  Van  would  n't  ? " 

"No  matter  'how'  —  but  better  still.  He  hasn't 
'stuck."  She  said  it  very  simply,  but  she  turned  away 
from  him. 

His  eyes  for  a  little  followed  her.  "We  don't  know, 
after  all,  the  old  boy's  means." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'we'  don't. 
Nanda  does." 

"  But  where 's  the  support  if  she  does  n't  tell  us  ? " 

Mrs.  Brook,  who  had  faced  about,  again  turned 
from  him.  "I  hope  you  don't  forget,"  she  remarked 
with  superiority,  "that  we  don't  ask  her." 

"  You  don't  ? "  Edward  gloomed. 

"Never.    But  I  trust  her." 

"Yes,"  he  mused  afresh,  "one  must  trust  one's 
child.  Does  Van  ? "  he  then  enquired. 

"  Does  he  trust  her  ? " 

"  Does  he  know  anything  of  the  general  figure  ? " 

She  hesitated.    "Everything.    It's  high." 

"  He  has  told  you  so  ? " 

457 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mrs.  Brook,  supremely  impatient  now,  seemed 
to  demur  even  to  the  question.  "We  ask  him  even 
less." 

"Then  how  do  we  know  ?" 

She  was  weary  of  explaining.  "  Because  that 's  just 
why  he  hates  it." 

There  was  no  end  however,  apparently,  to  what 
Edward  could  take.  "But  hates  what?" 

"Why,  not  liking  her." 

Edward  kept  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  dead  eyes 
on  the  cornice  and  the  ceiling.  "  I  should  n't  think  it 
would  be  so  difficult." 

"Well,  you  see  it  is  n't.  Mr.  Longdon  can  manage 
it." 

"  I  don't  see  what  the  devil 's  the  matter  with  her," 
he  coldly  continued. 

"  Ah  that  may  not  prevent  — !  It 's  fortunately  the 
source  at  any  rate  of  half  Mr.  Longdon's  interest." 

"But  what  the  hell  is  it  ?"  he  drearily  demanded. 

She  faltered  a  little,  but  she  brought  it  out.  "  It 's 
me." 

"And  what's  the  matter  with  'you'  ?" 

She  made,  at  this,  a  movement  that  drew  his  eyes  to 
her  own,  and  for  a  moment  she  dimly  smiled  at  him. 
"That's  the  nicest  thing  you  ever  said  to  me.  But 
ever,  ever,  you  know." 

"  Is  it  ? "  She  had  her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  and  he 
looked  almost  awkward. 

"  Quite  the  very  nicest.  Consider  that  fact  well  and 
even  if  you  only  said  it  by  accident  don't  be  funny 
—  as  you  know  you  sometimes  can  be  —  and  take  it 
back.  It's  all  right.  It's  charming,  is  n't  it?  when 

458 


VANDERBANK 

our  troubles  bring  us  more  together.  Now  go  up  to 
her." 

Edward  kept  a  queer  face,  into  which  this  succes 
sion  of  remarks  introduced  no  light,  but  he  finally 
moved,  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  almost  reached 
the  door  that  he  stopped  again.  "  Of  course  you  know 
he  has  sent  her  no  end  of  books." 

"  Mr.  Longdon  —  of  late  ?  Oh  yes,  a  deluge,  so 
that  her  room  looks  like  a  bookseller's  back  shop; 
and  all,  in  the  loveliest  bindings,  the  most  standard 
English  works.  I  not  only  know  it,  naturally,  but  I 
know  —  what  you  don't  —  why." 

"'Why'  ?"  Edward  echoed.  "Why  but  that  —  un 
less  he  should  send  her  money  —  it's  about  the  only 
kindness  he  can  show  her  at  a  distance  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  hesitated;  then  with  a  little  suppressed 
sigh:  "That 'sit!" 

But  it  still  held  him.  "And  perhaps  he  does  send 
her  money." 

"No.    Not  now." 

Edward  lingered.    "Then  is  he  taking  it  out  —  ?" 

"In  books  only?"  It  was  wonderful — with  its 
effect  on  him  now  visible  —  how  she  possessed  her 
subject.  "Yes,  that's  his  delicacy  —  for  the  present." 

"And  you're  not  afraid  for  the  future  —  ?" 

"Of  his  considering  that  the  books  will  have 
worked  it  off?  No.  They're  thrown  in." 

Just  perceptibly  cheered  he  reached  the  door, 
where,  however,  he  had  another  pause.  "You  don't 
think  I  had  better  see  Van  ? " 

She  stared.    "What  for?" 

"Why,  to  ask  what  the  devil  he  means." 

459 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"  If  you  should  do  anything  so  hideously  vulgar," 
she  instantly  replied,  "  I  'd  leave  your  house  the  next 
hour.  Do  you  expect,"  she  asked,  "to  be  able  to  force 
your  child  down  his  throat  ? " 

He  was  clearly  not  prepared  with  an  account  of  his 
expectations,  but  he  had  a  general  memory  that 
imposed  itself.  "Then  why  in  the  world  did  he  make 
up  to  us  ?  " 

" He  did  n't.    We  made  up  to  him" 

"  But  why  in  the  world  —  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  really  to  finish,  "we  were 
in  love  with  him." 

"  Oh ! "  Edward  jerked.  He  had  by  this  time  opened 
the  door,  and  the  sound  was  partly  the  effect  of  the 
disclosure  of  a  servant  preceding  a  visitor.  His  greet 
ing  of  the  visitor  before  edging  past  and  away  was, 
however,  of  the  briefest;  it  might  have  implied  that 
they  had  met  but  yesterday.  "  How  d'  ye  do,  Mitchy  ? 
—  At  home  ?  Oh  rather ! " 


Ill 


VERY  different  was  Mrs.  Brook's  welcome  of  the 
restored  wanderer,  to  whom,  in  a  brief  space,  she 
addressed  every  expression  of  surprise  and  delight, 
though  marking  indeed  at  last,  as  a  qualification  of 
these  things,  her  regret  that  he  declined  to  partake 
of  her  tea  or  to  allow  her  to  make  him  what  she  called 
"snug  for  a  talk"  in  his  customary  corner  of  her  sofa. 
He  pleaded  frankly  agitation  and  embarrassment, 
reminded  her  even  that  he  was  awfully  shy  and  that 
after  separations,  complications,  whatever  might  at 
any  time  happen,  he  was  conscious  of  the  dust  that 
had  settled  on  intercourse  and  that  he  could  n't  blow 
away  in  a  single  breath.  She  was  only,  according  to 
her  nature,  to  indulge  him  if,  while  he  walked  about 
and  changed  his  place,  he  came  to  the  surface  but 
in  patches  and  pieces.  There  was  so  much  he  wanted 
to  know  that  —  well,  as  they  had  arrived  only  the 
night  before,  she  could  judge.  There  was  knowledge, 
it  became  clear,  that  Mrs.  Brook  almost  equally 
craved,  so  that  it  even  looked  at  first  as  if,  on  either 
side,  confidence  might  be  choked  by  curiosity.  This 
disaster  was  finally  barred  by  the  fact  that  the  spirit 
of  enquiry  found  for  Mitchy  material  that  was  com 
paratively  plastic.  That  was  after  all  apparent 
enough  when  at  the  end  of  a  few  vain  passes  he 
brought  out  sociably:  "Well,  has  he  done  it?" 
Still  indeed  there  was  something  in  Mrs.  Brook's 
461 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

face  that  seemed  to  reply  "  Oh  come  —  don't  rush  it, 
you  know!"  and  something  in  the  movement  with 
which  she  turned  away  that  described  the  state  of 
their  question  as  by  no  means  so  simple  as  that.  On 
his  refusal  of  tea  she  had  rung  for  the  removal  of  the 
table,  and  the  bell  was  at  this  moment  answered  by 
the  two  men.  Little  ensued  then,  for  some  minutes, 
while  the  servants  were  present;  she  spoke  only  as 
the  butler  was  about  to  close  the  door.  "If  Mr. 
Longdon  presently  comes  show  him  into  Mr.  Brook- 
enham's  room  if  Mr.  Brookenham  is  n't  there.  If 
he  is  show  him  into  the  dining-room  and  in  either 
case  let  me  immediately  know." 

The  man  waited  expressionless.  "And  in  case  of 
his  asking  for  Miss  Brookenham  —  ?" 

"He  won't!"  she  replied  with  a  sharpness  before 
which  her  interlocutor  retired.  "  He  will ! "  she  then 
added  in  quite  another  tone  to  Mitchy.  "That  is,  you 
know,  he  perfectly  may.  But  oh  the  "subtlety  of  serv 
ants!"  she  sighed. 

Mitchy  was  now  all  there.  "Mr.  Longdon 's  in 
town  then  ? " 

"  For  the  first  time  since  you  went  away.  He 's  to 
call  this  afternoon." 

"And  you  want  to  see  him  alone  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook  thought.  "I  don't  think  I  want  to  see 
him  at  all." 

"Then  your  keeping  him  below  —  ?" 

"Is  so  that  he  shan't  burst  in  till  I  know.  It's  you, 
my  dear,  I  want  to  see." 

Mitchy  glared  about.  "  Well,  don't  take  it  ill  if,  in 
return  for  that,  I  say  I  myself  want  to  see  every  one. 

462 


VANDERBANK 

I  could  have  done  even  just  now  with  a  little  more  of 
Edward." 

Mrs.  Brook,  in  her  own  manner  and  with  a  slow 
headshake,  looked  lovely.  "/  could  n't."  Then  she 
puzzled  it  out  with  a  pause.  "  It  even  does  come  over 
me  that  if  you  don't  mind — !" 

"What,  my  dear  woman,"  said  Mitchy  encourag 
ingly,  "  did  I  ever  mind  ?  I  assure  you,"  he  laughed, 
"  I  have  n't  come  back  to  begin ! " 

At  this,  suddenly  dropping  everything  else,  she  laid 
her  hand  on  him.  "Mitchy  love,  are  you  happy  ?" 

So  for  a  moment  they  stood  confronted.  "Not  per 
haps  as  you  would  have  tried  to  make  me." 

"Well,  you've  still  got  me,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mitchy,  "  I  've  got  a  great  deal.  How, 
if  I  really  look  at  it,  can  a  man  of  my  peculiar  nature 
—  it  is,  you  know,  awfully  peculiar  —  not  be  happy  ? 
Think,  if  one  is  driven  to  it  for  instance,  of  the  breadth 
of  my  sympathies." 

Mrs.  Brook,  as  a  result  of  thinking,  appeared  for 
a  little  to  demur.  "  Yes  —  but  one  must  n't  be  too 
much  driven  to  it.  It 's  by  one's  sympathies  that  one 
suffers.  If  you  should  do  that  I  could  n't  bear  it." 

She  clearly  evoked  for  Mitchy  a  definite  image. 
"  It  would  be  funny,  would  n't  it  ?  But  you  would  n't 
have  to.  I  'd  go  off  and  do  it  alone  somewhere  —  in 
a  dark  room,  I  think,  or  on  a  desert  island ;  at  any 
rate  where  nobody  should  see.  Where's  the  harm 
moreover,"  he  went  on,  "of  any  suffering  that  does  n't 
bore  one,  as  I  'm  sure,  however  much  its  outer  aspect 
might  amuse  some  others,  mine  would  n't  bore  me  ? 
What  I  should  do  in  my  desert  island  or  my  dark 

463 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

room,  I  feel,  would  be  just  to  dance  about  with  the 
thrill  of  it  —  which  is  exactly  the  exhibition  of  ludi 
crous  gambols  that  I  would  fain  have  arranged  to 
spare  you.  I  assure  you,  dear  Mrs.  Brook,"  he  wound 
up,  "that  I'm  not  in  the  least  bored  now.  Every 
thing's  so  interesting." 

"You're  beautiful!"  she  vaguely  interposed. 

But  he  pursued  without  heeding:  "Was  perhaps 
what  you  had  in  your  head  that  /  should  see  him  —  ? " 

She  came  back  but  slowly,  however,  to  the  mo 
ment.  "  Mr.  Longdon  ?  Well,  yes.  You  know  he 
can't  bear  me  — 

"Yes,  yes"  —  Mitchy  was  almost  eager. 

It  had  already  sent  her  off  again.  "You're  too 
lovely.  You  have  come  back  the  same.  It  seemed  to 
me,"  she  after  an  instant  explained,  "that  I  wanted 
him  to  be  seen  — " 

"Without  inconvenience,  as  it  were,  either  to  him 
self  or  to  you  ?  Then,"  said  Mitchy,  who  visibly  felt 
that  he  had  taken  her  up  successfully,  "it  strikes  me 
that  I'm  absolutely  your  man.  It's  delicious  to  come 
back  to  a  use." 

But  she  was  much  more  dim  about  it.  "Oh  what 
you've  come  back  to — !" 

"It's  just  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at.  Van  is  still 
then  where  I  left  him  ? " 

She  was  just  silent.  "Did  you  really  believe  he 
would  move  ?" 

Mitchy  took  a  few  turns,  speaking  almost  with  his 
back  presented.  "  Well,  with  all  the  reasons  — ! " 
After  which,  while  she  watched  him,  he  was  before 
her  again  with  a  question.  "  It 's  utterly  off  ? " 

464 


VANDERBANK 

"When  was  it  ever  really  on  ?" 

"Oh  I  know  your  view,  and  that,  I  think,"  said 
Mitchy,  "  is  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  it.  I  can 
tell  you  it  would  have  put  me  on." 

"My  view?"  Mrs.  Brook  thought.  "Have  you 
forgotten  that  I  had  for  you  too  a  view  that  did  n't  ?" 

"Ah  but  we  did  n't  differ,  you  and  I.  It  was  n't 
a  defiance  and  a  prophecy.  You  wanted  me." 

"I  did  indeed!"  Mrs.  Brook  said  simply. 

"And  you  did  n't  want  him.  For  her,  I  mean.  So 
you  risked  showing  it." 

She  looked  surprised.    "Did  I  ?" 

Again  they  were  face  to  face.  "Your  candour's 
divine ! " 

She  wondered.   "  Do  you  mean  it  was  even  then  ?" 

Mitchy  smiled  at  her  till  he  was  red.  "It's  ex 
quisite  now." 

"  Well,"  she  presently  returned,  "  I  knew  my  Van ! " 

"/  thought  I  knew  'yours'  too,"  Mitchy  said. 
Their  eyes  met  a  minute  and  he  added:  "But  I  did 
n't."  Then  he  exclaimed :  "  How  you  've  worked  it ! " 

She  looked  barely  conscious.  "* Worked  it'?" 
After  which,  with  a  slightly  sharper  note:  "How  do 
you  know  —  while  you  've  been  amusing  yourself  in 
places  that  I  'd  give  my  head  to  see  again  but  never 
shall  —  what  I've  been  doing?" 

"Well/ 1  saw,  you  know,  that  night  at  Tishy's,  just 
before  we  left  England,  your  wonderful  start.  I  got 
a  look  at  your  attitude,  as  it  were,  and  your  system." 

Her  eyes  were  now  far  away,  and  she  spoke  after  an 
instant  without  moving  them.  "And  did  n't  I  by  the 
same  token  get  a  look  at  yours  ? " 

465 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Mine?"  Mitchy  thought,  but  seemed  to  doubt. 
"My  dear  child,  I  had  n't  any  then." 

"You  mean  that  it  has  formed  itself  —  your  sys 
tem  —  since  ? " 

He  shook  his  head  with  decision.  "  I  assure  you  I  'm 
quite  at  sea.  I've  never  had,  and  I  have  as  little  as 
ever  now,  anything  but  my  general  philosophy,  which 
I  won't  attempt  at  present  to  go  into  and  of  which 
moreover  I  think  you've  had  first  and  last  your 
glimpses.  What  I  made  out  in  you  that  night  was 
a  perfect  policy." 

Mrs.  Brook  had  another  of  her  infantine  stares. 
"Every  one  that  night  seems  to  have  made  out 
something!  All  I  can  say  is  at  any  rate,"  she  went 
on,  "that  in  that  case  you  were  all  far  deeper  than 
I  was." 

"  It  was  just  a  blind  instinct,  without  a  programme 
or  a  scheme  ?  Perhaps  then,  since  it  has  so  perfectly 
succeeded,  the  name  doesn't  matter.  I'm  lost,  as 
I  tell  you,"  Mitchy  declared,  "in  admiration  of  its 
success." 

She  looked,  as  before,  so  young,  yet  so  grave. 
"  What  do  you  call  its  success  ? " 

"  Let  me  ask  you  rather  —  may  n't  I  ?  —  what  you 
call  its  failure." 

Mrs.  Brook,  who  had  been  standing  for  some 
minutes,  seated  herself  at  this  as  if  to  respond  to  his 
idea.  But  the  next  moment  she  had  fallen  back  into 
thought.  "  Have  you  often  heard  from  him  ? " 

"Never  once." 

"  And  have  you  written  ? " 

"Not  a  word  either.  I  left  it,  you  see,"  Mitchy 
466 


VANDERBANK 

smiled,  "all  to  you."     After  which  he  continued: 
"  Has  he  been  with  you  much  ? " 

She  just  hesitated.  "As  little  as  possible.  But  as 
it  happens  he  was  here  just  now." 

Her  visitor  fairly  flushed.  "And  I've  only  missed 
him?" 

Her  pause  again  was  of  the  briefest.  "You  would  n't 
if  he  had  gone  up." 

"'Gone  up'?" 

"To  Nanda,  who  has  now  her  own  sitting-room,  as 
you  know;  for  whom  he  immediately  asked  and  for 
whose  benefit,  whatever  you  may  think,  I  was  at  the 
end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  assure  you,  perfectly 
ready  to  release  him.  He  changed  his  mind,  however, 
and  went  away  without  seeing  her." 

Mitchy  showed  the  deepest  interest.  "And  what 
made  him  change  his  mind  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  thinking  it  out." 

He  appeared  to  watch  this  labour.  "  But  with  no 
light  yet?" 

"When  it  comes  I'll  tell  you." 

He  hung  fire  once  more  but  an  instant.  "You 
did  n't  yourself  work  the  thing  again  ?" 

She  rose  at  this  in  strange  sincerity.  "  I  think,  you 
know,  you  go  very  far." 

"Why,  did  n't  we  just  now  settle,"  he  promptly 
replied,  "that  it's  all  instinctive  and  unconscious? 
If  it  was  so  that  night  at  Tishy's  — !  " 

"Ah,  voyonsy  voyons,"  she  broke  in,  "what  did 
I  do  even  then  ?" 

He  laughed  out  at  something  in  her  tone.  "You'd 
like  it  again  all  pictured  —  ?" 

467 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I'm  not  afraid." 

"Why,  you  just  simply  —  publicly  —  took  her 
back." 

"And  where  was  the  monstrosity  of  that  ?" 

"In  the  one  little  right  place.  In  your  removal  of 
every  doubt  — " 

"Well,  of  what?"  He  had  appeared  not  quite  to 
know  how  to  put  it. 

But  he  saw  at  last.  "Why,  of  what  we  may  still 
hope  to  do  for  her.  Thanks  to  your  care  there  were 
specimens."  Then  as  she  had  the  look  of  trying 
vainly  to  focus  a  few,  "I  can't  recover  them  one  by 
one,"  he  pursued,  "but  the  whole  thing  was  quite 
lurid  enough  to  do  us  all  credit." 

She  met  him  after  a  little,  but  at  such  an  odd  point. 
"  Pardon  me  if  I  scarcely  see  how  much  of  the  credit 
was  yours.  For  the  first  time  since  I  've  known  you, 
you  went  in  for  decency." 

Mitchy's  surprise  showed  as  real.  "It  struck  you 
as  decency  —  ? " 

Since  he  wished  she  thought  it  over.  "Oh  your 
behaviour  — !" 

"  My  behaviour  was  —  my  condition.  Do  you  call 
that  decent  ?  No,  you  're  quite  out."  He  spoke,  in 
his  good  nature,  with  an  approach  to  reproof.  "How 
can  I  ever  —  ? " 

But  it  had  already  brought  her  quite  round,  and  to 
a  firmer  earth  that  she  clearly  preferred  to  tread. 
"Are  things  really  bad  with  you,  Mitch?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  how  they  are.    But  not  now." 

"Some  other  time  ?  —  on  your  honour  ?" 

"You  shall  have  it  all.    Don't  be  afraid." 
468 


VANDERBANK 

She  dimly  smiled.    "It  will  be  like  old  times." 

He  rather  demurred.  "  For  you  perhaps.  But  not 
for  me." 

In  spite  of  what  he  said  it  did  hold  her,  and  her 
hand  again  almost  caressed  him.  "  But  —  till  you  do 
tell  me  —  is  it  very  very  dreadful  ? " 

"That's  just  perhaps  what  I  may  have  to  get  you 
to  decide." 

"Then  shall  I  help  you?"  she  eagerly  asked. 

"I  think  it  will  be  quite  in  your  line." 

At  the  thought  of  her  line  —  it  sounded  somehow 
so  general  —  she  released  him  a  little  with  a  sigh,  yet 
still  looking  round,  as  it  were,  for  possibilities.  "  Jane, 
you  know,  is  in  a  state." 

"Yes,  Jane's  in  a  state.   That's  a  comfort!" 

She  continued  in  a  manner  to  cling  to  him.  "  But  is 
it  your  only  one  ?" 

He  was  very  kind  and  patient.  "Not  perhaps 
quite." 

"I'm  a  little  of  one?" 

"My  dear  child,  as  you  see." 

Yes,  she  saw,  but  was  still  on  the  wing.  "And  shall 
you  have  recourse  —  ?" 

"To  what  ?"  he  asked  as  she  appeared  to  falter. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  anything  violent.  But  shall  you 
tellNanda?" 

Mitchy  wondered.    "Tell  her  —  ?" 

"Well,  everything.  I  think,  you  know,"  Mrs. 
Brook  musingly  observed,  "  that  it  would  really  serve 
her  right." 

Mitchy's  silence,  which  lasted  a  minute,  seemed  to 
take  the  idea,  but  not  perhaps  quite  to  know  what 

469 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

to  do  with  it.  "Ah  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  really 
serve  her  right!" 

Just  as  he  spoke  the  butler  reappeared;  at  sight 
of  whom  Mrs.  Brook  immediately  guessed.  "Mr. 
Longdon  ?" 

"In  Mr.  Brookenham's  room,  ma'am.  Mr.  Brook- 
enham  has  gone  out." 

"And  where  has  he  gone?" 

"I  think,  ma'am,  only  for  some  evening  papers." 

She  had  an  intense  look  for  Mitchy;  then  she  said 
to  the  man :  "  Ask  him  to  wait  three  minutes  —  I  '11 
ring;"  turning  again  to  her  visitor  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone.  "  You  don't  know  how  I  'm  trusting  you ! " 

"Trusting  me  ?" 

"Why,  if  he  comes  up  to  you." 

Mitchy  thought.    "Had  n't  I  better  go  down  ?" 

"No  —  you  may  have  Edward  back.  If  you  see 
him  you  must  see  him  here.  If  I  don't  myself  it 's  for 
a  reason." 

Mitchy  again  just  sounded  her.  "His  not,  as  you 
a  while  ago  hinted  —  ?" 

"Yes,  caring  for  what  I  say."  She  had  a  pause, 
but  she  brought  it  out.  "  He  does  n't  believe  a 
word—!" 

"Of  what  you  tell  him?"  Mitchy  was  splendid. 
"I  see.  And  you  want  something  said  to  him." 

"Yes,  that  he'll  take  from  you.  Only  it's  for  you," 
Mrs.  Brook  went  on,  "really  and  honestly,  and  as 
I  trust  you,  to  give  it.  But  the  comfort  of  you  is  that 
you'll  do  so  if  you  promise." 

Mitchy  was  infinitely  struck.  "  But  I  have  n't  pro 
mised,  eh  ?  Of  course  I  can't  till  I  know  what  it  is." 

470 


VANDERBANK 

"It's  to  put  before  him — !" 

"Oh  I  see:  the  situation." 

"What  has  happened  here  to-day.  Van's  marked 
retreat  and  how,  with  the  time  that  has  passed,  it 
makes  us  at  last  know  where  we  are.  You  of  course 
for  yourself,"  Mrs.  Brook  wound  up,  "see  that." 

"Where  we  are?"  Mitchy  took  a  turn  and  came 
back.  "  But  what  then  did  Van  come  for  ?  If  you 
speak  of  a  retreat  there  must  have  been  an  advance." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Brook,  "he  simply  wanted  not 
to  look  too  brutal.  After  so  much  absence  he  could 
come." 

"Well,  if  he  established  that  he  is  n't  brutal,  where 
was  the  retreat  ?" 

"In  his  not  going  up  to  Nanda.  He  came  — 
frankly  —  to  do  that,  but  made  up  his  mind  on 
second  thoughts  that  he  could  n't  risk  even  being 
civil  to  her." 

Mitchy  had  visibly  warmed  to  his  work.  "Well, 
and  what  made  the  difference  ? " 

She  wondered.    "What  difference  ?" 

"Why,  of  the  effect,  as  you  say,  of  his  second 
thoughts.  Thoughts  of  what  ? " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  suddenly  and  as  if  it  were 
quite  simple  —  "I  know  that  !  Suspicions." 

"And  of  whom?" 

"Why,  of  you,  you  goose.  Of  your  not  having 
done—" 

"Well,  what?"  he  persisted  as  she  paused. 

"  How  shall  I  say  it  ?  The  best  thing  for  yourself. 
And  of  Nanda's  feeling  that.  Don't  you  see  ? " 

In  the  effort  of  seeing,  or  perhaps  indeed  in  the  full 
471 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

act  of  it,  poor  Mitchy  glared  as  never  before.  "  Do 
you  mean  Van 's  jealous  of  me  ? " 

Pressed  as  she  was,  there  was  something  in  his 
face  that  momentarily  hushed  her.  "There  it  is!" 
she  achieved  however  at  last. 

"Of  me?"  Mitchy  went  on. 

What  was  in  his  face  so  suddenly  and  strangely 
was  the  look  of  rising  tears  —  at  sight  of  which,  as 
from  a  compunction  as  prompt,  she  showed  a  lovely 
flush.  "There  it  is,  there  it  is,"  she  repeated.  "You 
ask  me  for  a  reason,  and  it 's  the  only  one  I  see.  Of 
course  if  you  don't  care,"  she  added,  "he  needn't 
come  up.  He  can  go  straight  to  Nanda." 

Mitchy  had  turned  away  again  as  with  the  impulse 
of  hiding  the  tears  that  had  risen  and  that  had  not 
wholly  disappeared  even  by  the  time  he  faced  about. 
"  Did  Nanda  know  he  was  to  come  ? " 

"Mr.Xongdon?" 

"No,  no.    Was  she  expecting  Van  —  ?" 

"My  dear  man,"  Mrs.  Brook  mildly  wailed,  "when 
can  she  have  not  been  ? " 

Mitchy  looked  hard  for  an  instant  at  the  floor. 
"I  mean  does  she  know  he  has  been  and  gone  ?" 

Mrs.  Brook,  from  where  she  stood  and  through  the 
window,  looked  rather  at  the  sky.  "Her  father  will 
have  told  her." 

"  Her  father  ? "  Mitchy  frankly  wondered.  "  Is  he 
in  it?" 

Mrs.  Brook  had  at  this  a  longer  pause.  "You  as 
sume,  I  suppose,  Mitchy  dear,"  she  then  quavered 
"that  I  put  him  up — !" 

"  Put  Edward  up  ? "  he  broke  in. 

472 


VANDERBANK 

"No  —  that  of  course.   Put  Van  up  to  ideas  — ! " 

He  caught  it  again.  "  About  me  —  what  you  call  his 
suspicions  ? "  He  seemed  to  weigh  the  charge,  but  it 
ended,  while  he  passed  his  hand  hard  over  his  eyes, 
in  weariness  and  in  the  nearest  approach  to  coldness 
he  had  ever  shown  Mrs.  Brook.  "  It  does  n't  matter. 
It's  every  one's  fate  to  be  in  one  way  or  another  the 
subject  of  ideas.  Do  then,"  he  continued,  "let  Mr. 
Longdon  come  up." 

She  instantly  rang  the  bell.  "Then  I'll  go  to 
Nanda.  But  don't  look  frightened,"  she  added  as 
she  came  back,  "  as  to  what  we  may  —  Edward  or  I  — 
do  next.  It 's  only  to  tell  her  that  he  '11  be  with  her." 

"Good.    I'll  tell  Tatton,"  Mitchy  replied. 

Still,  however,  she  lingered.  "Shall  you  ever  care 
for  me  more  ? " 

He  had  almost  the  air,  as  he  waited  for  her  to  go, 
of  the  master  of  the  house,  for  she  had  made  herself 
before  him,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  as 
humble  as  a  tolerated  visitor.  "Oh  just  as  much. 
Where 's  the  difference  ?  Are  n't  our  ties  in  fact  rather 
multiplied  ?" 

"  That 's  the  way  7  want  to  feel  it.  And  from  the 
moment  you  recognise  with  me  — " 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  that  he  never,  you  know,  really  would  — " 

He  took  her  mercifully  up.  "There's  no  harm 
done  ? "  Mitchy  thought  of  it. 

It  made  her  still  hover.  "Nanda  will  be  rich. 
Toward  that  you  can  help,  and  it 's  really,  I  may  now 
tell  you,  what  it  came  into  my  head  you  should  see 
our  friend  here  for." 

473 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

He  maintained  his  waiting  attitude.  "Thanks, 
thanks." 

"You're  our  guardian  angel !"  she  exclaimed. 

At  this  he  laughed  out.  "Wait  till  you  see  what 
Mr.  Longdon  does!" 

But  she  took  no  notice.  "I  want  you  to  see  before 
I  go  that  I've  done  nothing  for  myself.  Van,  after 
all  — !"  she  mused. 

"Well?" 

"Only  hates  me.  It  is  n't  as  with  you,"  she  said. 
"I've  really  lost  Arm." 

Mitchy  for  an  instant,  with  the  eyes  that  had 
shown  his  tears,  glared  away  into  space.  "He  can't 
very  positively,  you  know,  now  like  any  of  us.  He 
misses  a  fortune." 

"There  it  is!"  Mrs.  Brook  once  more  observed. 
Then  she  had  a  comparative  brightness.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  don't ! "  He  gave  another  laugh,  but  she  was 
already  facing  Mr.  Tatton,  who  had  again  answered 
the  bell.  "Show  Mr.  Longdon  up." 

"I'm  to  tell  him  then  it's  at  your  request?" 
Mitchy  asked  when  the  butler  had  gone. 

"That  you  receive  him  ?  Oh  yes.  He  '11  be  the  last 
to  quarrel  with  that.  But  there 's  one  more  thing." 

It  was  something  over  which  of  a  sudden  she  had 
one  of  her  returns  of  anxiety.  "  I  've  been  trying  for 
months  and  months  to  remember  to  find  out  from 
you—" 

"Well,  what?"  he  enquired,  as  she  looked  odd. 

"Why  if  Harold  ever  gave  back  to  you,  as  he 
swore  to  me  on  his  honour  he  would,  that  five-pound 
note—!" 

474 


VANDERBANK 

"But  which,  dear  lady  ?"  The  sense  of  other  in 
congruities  than  those  they  had  been  dealing  with 
seemed  to  arrive  now  for  Mitchy's  aid. 

"The  one  that,  ages  ago,  one  day  when  you  and 
Van  were  here,  we  had  the  joke  about.  You  pro 
duced  it,  in  sport,  as  a  *  fine '  for  something,  and  put  it 
on  that  table  ;  after  which,  before  I  knew  what  you 
were  about,  before  I  could  run  after  you,  you  had  gone 
off  and  ridiculously  left  it.  Of  course  the  next  minute 

—  and  again  before  I  could  turn  round  —  Harold  had 
pounced  on  it,  and  I  tried  in  vain  to  recover  it  from 
him.    But  all  I  could  get  him  to  do  — " 

"  Was  to  promise  to  restore  it  straight  to  its  owner  ? " 
Mitchy  had  listened  so  much  less  in  surprise  than  in 
amusement  that  he  had  apparently  after  a  moment 
re-established  the  scene.  "  Oh  I  recollect  —  he  did 
settle  with  me.  That's  all  right." 

She  fixed  him  from  the  door  of  the  next  room.  "  You 
got  every  penny  ?" 

"  Every  penny.   But  fancy  your  bringing  it  up ! " 

"Ah  I  always  do,  you  know  —  some  day." 

"Yes,  you're  of  a  rigour — !  But  be  at  peace. 
Harold's  quite  square,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  quite 
meant  to  have  asked  you  about  him." 

Mrs.  Brook,  promptly,  was  all  for  this.  "  Oh  it 's  all 
right." 

Mitchy  came  nearer.    "  Lady  Fanny  —  ? " 

"Yes  —  has  stayed  for  him." 

"Ah,"  said  Mitchy,"!  knew  you'd  do  it!  But  hush 

—  they're  coming!"    On  which,  while  she  whisked 
away,  he  went  back  to  the  fire. 


IV 


TEN  minutes  of  talk  with  Mr.  Longdon  by  Mrs. 
Brookenham's  hearth  elapsed  for  him  without  his 
arriving  at  the  right  moment  to  take  up  the  business 
so  richly  put  before  him  in  his  previous  interview.  No 
less  time  indeed  could  have  sufficed  to  bring  him  into 
closer  relation  with  this  affair,  and  nothing  at  first 
could  have  been  more  marked  than  the  earnestness 
of  his  care  not  to  show  impatience  of  appeals  that 
were,  for  a  person  of  his  old  friend's  general  style, 
simple  recognitions  and  decencies.  There  was  a  limit 
to  the  mere  allusiveness  with  which,  in  Mr.  Longdon's 
school  of  manners,  a  foreign  tour  might  be  treated, 
and  Mitchy,  no  doubt,  plentifully  showed  that  none 
of  his  frequent  returns  had  encountered  a  curiosity  at 
once  so  explicit  and  so  discreet.  To  belong  to  a  circle 
in  which  most  of  the  members  might  be  at  any 
moment  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe  was  inevitably 
to  fall  into  the  habit  of  few  questions,  as  well  as  into 
that  of  making  up  for  their  fewness  by  their  freedom. 
This  interlocutor  in  short,  while  Mrs.  Brook's  repre 
sentative  privately  thought  over  all  he  had  in  hand, 
went  at  some  length  and  very  charmingly  —  since  it 
was  but  a  tribute  to  common  courtesy  —  into  the 
Virgilian  associations  of  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Finally, 
however,  he  started,  his  eye  having  turned  to  the 
clock.  "I'm  afraid  that,  though  our  hostess  does  n't 
appear,  I  must  n't  forget  myself.  I  too  came  back  but 

476 


VANDERBANK 

yesterday  and  I  've  an  engagement  —  for  which  I  'm 
already  late  —  with  Miss  Brookenham,  who  has  been 
so  good  as  to  ask  me  to  tea." 

The  divided  mind,  the  express  civility,  the  decent 
"  Miss  Brookenham,"  the  escape  from  their  hostess  — 
these  were  all  things  Mitchy  could  quickly  take  in,  and 
they  gave  him  in  a  moment  his  light  for  not  missing 
his  occasion.  "  I  see,  I  see  —  I  shall  make  you  keep 
Nanda  waiting.  But  there's  something  I  shall  ask 
you  to  take  from  me  quite  as  a  sufficient  basis  for 
that :  which  is  simply  that  after  all,  you  know  —  for 
I  think  you  do  know,  don't  you  ?  —  I  'm  nearly  as 
much  attached  to  her  as  you  are." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  looked  suddenly  apprehensive 
and  even  a  trifle  embarrassed,  but  he  spoke  with  due 
presence  of  mind.  "Of  course  I  understand  that 
perfectly.  If  you  had  n't  liked  her  so  much  — " 

"Well?"  said  Mitchy  as  he  checked  himself. 

"I  would  never,  last  year,  have  gone  to  stay  with 
you." 

"Thank  you!"  Mitchy  laughed. 

"Though  I  like  you  also  —  and  extremely,"  Mr. 
Longdon  gravely  pursued,  "for  yourself." 

Mitchy  made  a  sign  of  acknowledgement.  "You 
like  me  better  for  her  than  you  do  for  anybody  else 
but  myself." 

"You  put  it,  I  think,  correctly.  Of  course  I've  not 
seen  so  much  of  Nanda  —  if  between  my  age  and 
hers,  that  is,  any  real  contact  is  possible  —  without 
knowing  that  she  now  regards  you  as  one  of  the  very 
best  of  her  friends,  treating  you,  I  find  myself  sus 
pecting,  with  a  degree  of  confidence — " 

477 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mitchy  gave  a  laugh  of  interruption.  "That  she 
does  n't  show  even  to  you  ?" 

Mr.  Longdon's  poised  glasses  faced  him.  "Even! 
I  don't  mind,  as  the  opportunity  has  come  up,  telling 
you  frankly  —  and  as  from  my  time  of  life  to  your 
own  —  all  the  comfort  I  take  in  the  sense  that  in 
any  case  of  need  or  trouble  she  might  look  to  you 
for  whatever  advice  or  support  the  crisis  should 
demand." 

"  She  has  told  you  she  feels  I  'd  be  there  ? "  Mitchy 
after  an  instant  asked. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  his  friend  replied,  "that  I  ought 
quite  to  mention  anything  she  has  *  told '  me.  I  speak 
of  what  I've  made  out  myself." 

"Then  I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  say  for  your 
penetration.  Her  mother,  I  should  let  you  know," 
Mitchy  continued,  "is  with  her  just  now." 

Mr.  Longdon  took  off  his  glasses  with  a  jerk. 
"Has  anything  happened  to  her?" 

"To  account  for  the  fact  I  refer  to  ?"  Mitchy  said 
in  amusement  at  his  start.  "She's  not  ill,  that  I 
know  of,  thank  goodness,  and  she  has  n't  broken 
her  leg.  But  something,  none  the  less,  has  happened 
to  her  —  that  I  think  I  may  say.  To  tell  you  all  in  a 
word,  it 's  the  reason,  such  as  it  is,  of  my  being  here 
to  meet  you.  Mrs.  Brook  asked  me  to  wait.  She'll 
see  you  herself  some  other  time." 

Mr.  Longdon  wondered.    "And  Nanda  too?" 

"  Oh  that  must  be  between  yourselves.  Only,  while 
I  keep  you  here  — " 

"She  understands  my  delay?" 

Mitchy   thought.     "Mrs.    Brook   must   have   ex- 
478 


VANDERBANK 

plained."  Then  as  his  companion  took  this  in  silence, 
"But  you  don't  like  it?"  he  asked. 

"It  only  comes  to  me  that  Mrs.  Brook's  explana 
tions  — !" 

"Are  often  so  odd  ?  Oh  yes ;  but  Nanda,  you  know, 
allows  for  that  oddity.  And  Mrs.  Brook,  by  the  same 
token,"  Mitchy  developed,  "knows  herself — no  one 
better  —  what  may  frequently  be  thought  of  it. 
That's  precisely  the  reason  of  her  desire  that  you 
should  have  on  this  occasion  explanations  from  a 
source  that  she's  so  good  as  to  pronounce,  for  the 
immediate  purpose,  superior.  As  for  Nanda,"  he 
wound  up,  "to  be  aware  that  we're  here  together 
won't  strike  her  as  so  bad  a  sign." 

"No,"  Mr.  Longdon  attentively  assented;  "she'll 
hardly  fear  we  're  plotting  her  ruin.  But  what  then 
has  happened  to  her  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Mitchy,  "it's  you,  I  think,  who  will 
have  to  give  it  a  name.  I  know  you  know  what  I  've 
known." 

Mr.  Longdon,  his  nippers  again  in  place,  hesitated. 
"Yes,  I  know." 

"And  you've  accepted  it." 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  To  reckon  with  such  clever 
ness  —  !" 

"Was  beyond  you  ?  Ah  it  was  n't  my  cleverness," 
Mitchy  said.  "There's  a  greater  than  mine.  There's 
a  greater  even  than  Van's.  That 's  the  whole  point," 
he  went  on  while  his  friend  looked  at  him  hard. 
"You  don't  even  like  it  just  a  little  ?" 

Mr.  Longdon  wondered.  "The  existence  of  such 
an  element  —  ?" 

479 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"  No ;  the  existence  simply  of  my  knowledge  of  your 
idea." 

"I  suppose  I'm  bound  to  keep  in  mind  in  fairness 
the  existence  of  my  own  knowledge  of  yours." 

But  Mitchy  gave  that  the  go-by.  "Oh  I've  so 
many  ' ideas ' !  I'm  always  getting  hold  of  some  new 
one  and  for  the  most  part  trying  it  —  generally  to 
let  it  go  as  a  failure.  Yes,  I  had  one  six  months  ago. 
I  tried  that.  I  'm  trying  it  still." 

"Then  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Longdon  with  a  gaiety 
slightly  strained,  "that,  contrary  to  your  usual  rule, 
it's  a  success." 

It  was  a  gaiety,  for  that  matter,  that  Mitchy's 
could  match.  "It  does  promise  well!  But  I've  an 
other  idea  even  now,  and  it's  just  what  I'm  again 
trying." 

"On  me?"  Mr.  Longdon  still  somewhat  extra 
vagantly  smiled. 

Mitchy  thought.  "Well,  on  two  or  three  persons, 
of  whom  you  are  the  first  for  me  to  tackle.  But 
what  I  must  begin  with  is  having  from  you  that  you 
recognise  she  trusts  us." 

"Nanda?" 

Mitchy's  idea  after  an  instant  had  visibly  gone 
further.  "Both  of  them  —  the  two  women  up  there 
at  present  so  strangely  together.  Mrs.  Brook  must 
too;  immensely.  But  for  that  you  won't  care." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  relapsed  into  an  anxiety  more 
natural  than  his  expression  of  a  moment  before.  "  It's 
about  time !  But  if  Nanda  did  n't  trust  us,"  he  went 
on,  "her  case  would  indeed  be  a  sorry  one.  She  has 
nobody  else  to  trust." 

480 


VANDERBANK 

"Yes."  Mitchy's  concurrence  was  grave.  "Only 
you  and  me.'* 

"Only  you  and  me." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  over  it  in  a  pause 
terminated  at  last  by  Mitchy's  saying:  "We  must 
make  it  all  up  to  her." 

"  Is  that  your  idea  ? " 

"Ah,"  said  Mitchy  gently,  "don't  laugh  at  it." 

His  friend's  grey  gloom  again  covered  him.  "But 
what  can  —  ? "  Then  as  Mitchy  showed  a  face  that 
seemed  to  wince  with  a  silent  "What  could?"  the  old 
man  completed  his  objection.  "Think  of  the  magni 
tude  of  the  loss." 

"Oh  I  don't  for  a  moment  suggest,"  Mitchy  has 
tened  to  reply,  "that  it  isn't  immense." 

"She  does  care  for  him,  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Longdon. 

Mitchy,  at  this,  gave  a  wide,  prolonged  glare. 
"Know'  —  ?"  he  ever  so  delicately  murmured. 

His  irony  had  quite  touched.  "  But  of  course  you 
know !  You  know  everything  —  Nanda  and  you." 

There  was  a  tone  in  it  that  moved  a  spring,  and 
Mitchy  laughed  out.  "I  like  your  putting  me  with 
her!  But  we're  all  together.  With  Nanda,"  he  next 
added,  "it  ij  deep." 

His  companion  took  it  from  him.    "Deep." 

"And  yet  somehow  it  is  n't  abject." 

The  old  man  wondered.    "'Abject'  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  is  n't  pitiful.  In  its  way,"  Mitchy  de 
veloped,  "it's  happy." 

This  too,  though  rather  ruefully,  Mr.  Longdon 
could  take  from  him.  "Yes  —  in  its  way." 

481 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Any  passion  so  great,  so  complete,"  Mitchy  went 
on,  "is  —  satisfied  or  unsatisfied  —  a  life."  Mr. 
Longdon  looked  so  interested  that  his  fellow  visitor, 
evidently  stirred  by  what  was  now  an  appeal  and  a 
dependence,  grew  still  more  bland,  or  at  least  more 
assured,  for  affirmation.  "She's  not  too  sorry  for 
herself." 

"Ah  she's  so  proud!" 

"Yes,  but  that's  a  help." 

"Oh  —  not  for  us!" 

It  arrested  Mitchy,  but  his  ingenuity  could  only 
rebound.  "In  one  way:  that  of  reducing  us  to  feel 
that  the  desire  to  '  make  up '  to  her  is  —  well,  mainly 
for  our  relief.  If  she  'trusts'  us,  as  I  said  just  now, 
it  is  n't  for  that  she  does  so."  As  his  friend  appeared 
to  wait  then  to  hear,  it  was  presently  with  positive 
joy  that  he  showed  he  could  meet  the  last  difficulty. 
"What  she  trusts  us  to  do  "  —  oh  Mitchy  had  worked 
it  out!  —  "is  to  let  him  off." 

"Let  him  off?"   It  still  left  Mr.  Longdon  dim. 

"Easily.   That's  all." 

"  But  what  would  letting  him  off  hard  be  ?  It  seems 
to  me  he 's  —  on  any  terms  —  already  beyond  us. 
He  w  off." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  given  it  a  sound  that  suddenly 
made  Mitchy  appear  to  collapse  under  a  sharper  sense 
of  the  matter.  "He  is  off,"  he  moodily  echoed. 

His  companion,  again  a  little  bewildered,  watched 
him;  then  with  impatience :  "Do,  please,  tell  me  what 
has  happened." 

He  quickly  pulled  himself  round.  "  Well,  he  was, 
after  a  long  absence,  here  a  while  since  as  if  expressly 

482 


VANDERBANK 

to  see  her.    But  after  spending  half  an  hour  he  went 
away  without  it." 

Mr.  Longdon's  watch  continued.  "He  spent  the 
half-hour  with  her  mother  instead  ? " 

"  Oh  '  instead '  —  it  was  hardly  that.  He  at  all 
events  dropped  his  idea." 

"And  what  had  it  been,  his  idea  ?" 

"You  speak  as  if  he  had  as  many  as  I!'*  Mitchy 
replied.  "  In  a  manner  indeed  he  has,"  he  continued 
as  if  for  himself.  "  But  they  're  of  a  different  kind," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Longdon. 

"What  had  it  been,  his  idea  ?"  the  old  man,  how 
ever,  simply  repeated. 

Mitchy's  confession  at  this  seemed  to  explain  his 
previous  evasion.  "We  shall  never  know." 

Mr.  Longdon  hesitated.    "He  won't  tell  you  ?" 

"  Me  ? "  Mitchy  had  a  pause.  "  Less  than  any 
one." 

Many  things  they  had  not  spoken  had  already 
passed  between  them,  and  something  evidently,  to 
the  sense  of  each,  passed  during  the  moment  that 
followed  this.  "While  you  were  abroad,"  Mr. 
Longdon  presently  asked,  "did  you  hear  from 
him?" 

"Never.    And  I  wrote  nothing." 

"Like  me,"  said  Mr.  Longdon.  "I've  neither 
written  nor  heard." 

"Ah  but  with  you  it  will  be  different."  Mr.  Long 
don,  as  if  with  the  outbreak  of  an  agitation  hitherto 
controlled,  had  turned  abruptly  away  and,  with  the 
usual  swing  of  his  glass,  begun  almost  wildly  to 
wander.  "You  will  hear." 

483 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  shall  be  curious." 

"  Oh  but  what  Nanda  wants,  you  know,  is  that  you 
should  n't  be  too  much  so." 

Mr.  Longdon  thoughtfully  rambled.  "Too 
much—?" 

"To  let  him  off,  as  we  were  saying,  easily." 

The  elder  man  for  a  while  said  nothing  more,  but 
he  at  last  came  back.  "She 'd  like  me  actually  to  give 
him  something  ?" 

"I  dare  say!" 

"Money?" 

Mitchy  smiled.  "A  handsome  present."  They  were 
face  to  face  again  with  more  mute  interchange.  "  She 
doesn't  want  him  to  have  lost — !"  Mr.  Longdon, 
however,  on  this,  once  more  broke  off  while  Mitchy's 
eyes  followed  him.  "  Does  n't  it  give  a  sort  of  measure 
of  what  she  may  feel  —  ? " 

He  had  paused,  working  it  out  again  with  the  effect 
of  his  friend's  returning  afresh  to  be  fed  with  his 
light.  "  Does  n't  what  give  it  ? " 

"Why  the  fact  that  we  still  like  him." 

Mr.  Longdon  stared.    "Do  you  still  like  him?" 

"If  I  did  n't  how  should  I  mind  —  ?"  But  on  the 
utterance  of  it  Mitchy  fairly  pulled  up. 

His  companion,  after  another  look,  laid  a  mild 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "What  is  it  you  mind  ?" 

"From  him?  Oh  nothing!"  He  could  trust  him 
self  again.  "There  are  people  like  that  —  great  cases 
of  privilege." 

"He  is  one!"  Mr.  Longdon  mused. 

"There  it  is.  They  go  through  life  somehow 
guaranteed.  They  can't  help  pleasing." 

48.4 


VANDERBANK 

"Ah/'  Mr.  Longdon  murmured,  "if  it  had  n't  been 
for  that—!"  [t 

"They  hold,  they  keep  every  one,"  Mitchy  went  on. 
"It's  the  sacred  terror." 

The  companions  for  a  little  seemed  to  stand  together 
in  this  element;  after  which  the  elder  turned  once 
more  away  and  appeared  to  continue  to  walk  in  it. 
"  Poor  Nanda ! "  then,  in  a  far-off  sigh,  came  across 
from  him  to  Mitchy.  Mitchy  on  this  turned  vaguely 
round  to  the  fire,  into  which  he  remained  gazing  till 
he  heard  again  Mr.  Longdon's  voice.  "I  knew  it 
of  course  after  all.  It  was  what  I  came  up  to  town 
for.  That  night,  before  you  went  abroad,  at  Mrs. 
Grendon's  — " 

"Yes  ?"  —  Mitchy  was  with  him  again. 

"Well,  made  me  see  the  future.  It  was  then  already 
too  late." 

Mitchy  assented  with  emphasis.  "Too  late.  She 
was  spoiled  for  him." 

If  Mr.  Longdon  had  to  take  it  he  took  it  at  least 
quietly,  only  saying  after  a  time:  "And  her  mother 
im'tf" 

"Oh  yes.    Quite." 

"And  does  Mrs.  Brook  know  it?" 

"Yes,  but  doesn't  mind.  She  resembles  you  and 
me.  She  *  still  likes'  him." 

"But  what  good  will  that  do  her  ?" 

Mitchy  sketched  a  shrug.  "What  good  does  it  do 
us?" 

Mr.  Longdon  thought.  "We  can  at  least  respect 
ourselves." 

"  Can  we  ? "  Mitchy  smiled. 
485 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"And  he  can  respect  us,"  his  friend,  as  if  not 
hearing  him,  went  on. 

Mitchy  seemed  almost  to  demur.    "He  must  think 


we're  Turn." 


"Well,  Mrs.  Brook's  worse  than  rum.  He  can't 
respect  her" 

"Oh  that  will  be  perhaps,"  Mitchy  laughed,  "what 
she'll  get  just  most  out  of!"  It  was  the  first  time 
of  Mr.  Longdon's  showing  that  even  after  a  minute 
he  had  not  understood  him;  so  that  as  quickly  as 
possible  he  passed  to  another  point.  "If  you  do 
anything  may  I  be  in  it?" 

"But  what  can  I  do  ?    If  it's  over  it's  over." 

"For  him,  yes.  But  not  for  her  or  for  you  or  for 
me." 

"Oh  I'm  not  for  long!"  the  old  man  wearily  said, 
turning  the  next  moment  to  the  door,  at  which  one  of 
the  footmen  had  appeared. 

"Mrs.  Brookenham's  compliments,  please  sir,"  this 
messenger  articulated,  "and  Miss  Brookenham  is  now 
alone." 

"Thanks  — I'll  come  up." 

The  servant  withdrew,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two 
visitors  again  met  for  a  minute,  after  which  Mitchy 
looked  about  for  his  hat.  "Good-bye.  I'll  go." 

Mr.  Longdon  watched  him  while,  having  found  his 
hat,  he  looked  about  for  his  stick.  "You  want  to  be 
in  everything?" 

Mitchy,  without  answering,  smoothed  his  hat 
down;  then  he  replied:  "You  say  you're  not  for 
long,  but  you  won't  abandon  her." 

"Oh  I  mean  I  shan't  last  for  ever." 
486 


VANDERBANK 

"Well,  since  you  so  expressed  it  yourself,  that's 
what  I  mean  too.  I  assure  you  /  shan't  desert  her. 
And  if  I  can  help  you  — ! " 

"  Help  me  ? "  Mr.  Longdon  interrupted,  looking  at 
him  hard. 

It  made  him  a  little  awkward.  "Help  you  to  help 
her,  you  know — !" 

"  You  're  very  wonderful,"  Mr.  Longdon  presently 
returned.  "A  year  and  a  half  ago  you  wanted  to  help 
me  to  help  Mr.  Vanderbank." 

"Well,"  said  Mitchy,  "you  can't  quite  say  I 
have  n't." 

"But  your  ideas  of  help  are  of  a  splendour  — !" 

"Oh  I've  told  you  about  my  ideas."  Mitchy  was 
almost  apologetic. 

Mr.  Longdon  had  a  pause.  "I  suppose  I'm  not 
indiscreet  then  in  recognising  your  marriage  as  one 
of  them.  And  that,  with  a  responsibility  so  great 
already  assumed,  you  appear  fairly  eager  for  an 
other—!" 

"Makes  me  out  a  kind  of  monster  of  benevol 
ence?"  Mitchy  looked  at  it  with  a  flushed  face. 
"  The  two  responsibilities  are  very  much  one  and  the 
same.  My  marriage  has  brought  me,  as  it  were,  only 
nearer  to  Nanda.  My  wife  and  she,  don't  you  see  ? 
are  particular  friends." 

Mr.  Longdon,  on  his  side,  turned  a  trifle  pale;  he 
looked  rather  hard  at  the  floor.  "  I  see  —  I  see." 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes.  "  But  —  to  an  old  fellow 
like  me  —  it's  all  so  strange." 

"It  is  strange."  Mitchy  spoke  very  kindly.  "But 
it's  all  right." 

487 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Mr.  Longdon  gave  a  headshake  that  was  both  sad 
and  sharp.  "It's  all  wrong.  But  you're  all  right!" 
he  added  in  a  different  tone  as  he  walked  hastily 
away. 


BOOK  TENTH 

NANDA 


NANDA  BROOKENHAM,  for  a  fortnight  after  Mr.  Long- 
don's  return,  had  found  much  to  think  of;  but  the 
bustle  of  business  became,  visibly  for  us,  particularly 
great  with  her  on  a  certain  Friday  afternoon  in  June. 
She  was  in  unusual  possession  of  that  chamber  of 
comfort  in  which  so  much  of  her  life  had  lately  been 
passed,  the  redecorated  and  rededicated  room  up 
stairs  in  which  she  had  enjoyed  a  due  measure  both 
of  solitude  and  of  society.  Passing  the  objects  about 
her  in  review  she  gave  especial  attention  to  her  rather 
marked  wealth  of  books;  changed  repeatedly,  for 
five  minutes,  the  position  of  various  volumes,  trans 
ferred  to  tables  those  that  were  on  shelves  and  re 
arranged  shelves  with  an  eye  to  the  effect  of  backs. 
She  was  flagrantly  engaged  throughout  indeed  in  the 
study  of  effect,  which  moreover,  had  the  law  of  an 
extreme  freshness  not  inveterately  prevailed  there, 
might  have  been  observed  to  be  traceable  in  the  very 
detail  of  her  own  appearance.  "Company"  in  short 
was  in  the  air  and  expectation  in  the  picture.  The 
flowers  on  the  little  tables  bloomed  with  a  conscious 
ness  sharply  taken  up  by  the  glitter  of  nick-nacks 
and  reproduced  in  turn  in  the  light  exuberance  of 
cushions  on  sofas  and  the  measured  drop  of  blinds 
in  windows.  The  numerous  photographed  friends  in 
particular  were  highly  prepared,  with  small  intense 
faces,  each,  that  happened  in  every  case  to  be  turned 

491 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

to  the  door.  The  pair  of  eyes  most  dilated  perhaps 
was  that  of  old  Van,  present  under  a  polished  glass 
and  in  a  frame  of  gilt-edged  morocco  that  spoke  out, 
across  the  room,  of  Piccadilly  and  Christmas,  and 
visibly  widening  his  gaze  at  the  opening  of  the  door, 
at  the  announcement  of  a  name  by  a  footman  and  at 
the  entrance  of  a  gentleman  remarkably  like  him 
save  as  the  resemblance  was  on  the  gentleman's  part 
flattered.  Vanderbank  had  not  been  in  the  room  ten 
seconds  before  he  showed  ever  so  markedly  that  he 
had  arrived  to  be  kind.  Kindness  therefore  becomes 
for  us,  by  a  quick  turn  of  the  glass  that  reflects  the 
whole  scene,  the  high  pitch  of  the  concert  —  a  kind 
ness  that  almost  immediately  filled  the  place,  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else,  with  a  familiar  friendly 
voice,  a  brightness  of  good  looks  and  good  intentions, 
a  constant  though  perhaps  sometimes  misapplied 
laugh,  a  superabundance  almost  of  interest,  inatten 
tion  and  movement. 

The  first  thing  the  young  man  said  was  that  he 
was  tremendously  glad  she  had  written.  "I  think  it 
was  most  particularly  nice  of  you."  And  this  thought 
precisely  seemed,  as  he  spoke,  a  flower  of  the  general 
bloom  —  as  if  the  niceness  he  had  brought  in  was  so 
great  that  it  straightway  converted  everything  to  its 
image.  "The  only  thing  that  upset  me  a  little,"  he 
went  on,  "was  your  saying  that  before  writing  it  you 
had  so  hesitated  and  waited.  I  hope  very  much, 
you  know,  that  you  '11  never  do  anything  of  that  kind 
again.  If  you've  ever  the  slightest  desire  to  see  me  — 
for  no  matter  what  reason,  if  there 's  ever  the  small 
est  thing  of  any  sort  that  I  can  do  for  you,  I  promise 

492 


NANDA 

you  I  shan't  easily  forgive  you  if  you  stand  on  cere 
mony.  It  seems  to  me  that  when  people  have  known 
each  other  as  long  as  you  and  I  there 's  one  comfort 
at  least  they  may  treat  themselves  to.  I  mean  of 
course,"  Van  developed,  "that  of  being  easy  and 
frank  and  natural.  There  are  such  a  lot  of  relations 
in  which  one  is  n't,  in  which  it  does  n't  pay,  in  which 
'ease'  in  fact  would  be  the  greatest  of  troubles  and 
'nature'  the  greatest  of  falsities.  However,"  he  con 
tinued  while  he  suddenly  got  up  to  change  the  place 
in  which  he  had  put  his  hat,  "  I  don't  really  know  why 
I  'm  preaching  at  such  a  rate,  for  I  've  a  perfect  con 
sciousness  of  not  myself  requiring  it.  One  does  half 
the  time  preach  more  or  less  for  one's  self,  eh  ?  I  'm 
not  mistaken  at  all  events,  I  think,  about  the  right 
thing  with  you.  And  a  hint's  enough  for  you,  I'm 
sure,  on  the  right  thing  with  me."  He  had  been 
looking  all  round  while  he  talked  and  had  twice 
shifted  his  seat;  so  that  it  was  quite  in  consonance 
with  his  general  admiring  notice  that  the  next  impres 
sion  he  broke  out  with  should  have  achieved  some  air 
of  relevance.  "What  extraordinarily  lovely  flowers 
you  have  and  how  charming  you've  made  everything! 
You  're  always  doing  something  —  women  are  always 
changing  the  position  of  their  furniture.  If  one  hap 
pens  to  come  in  in  the  dark,  no  matter  how  well  one 
knows  the  place,  one  sits  down  on  a  hat  or  a  puppy- 
dog.  But  of  course  you  '11  say  one  does  n't  come  in  in 
the  dark,  or  at  least,  if  one  does,  deserves  what  one 
gets.  Only  you  know  the  way  some  women  keep  their 
rooms.  I  'm  bound  to  say  you  don't,  do  you  ?  —  you 
don't  go  in  for  flower-pots  in  the  windows  and  half 

493 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

a  dozen  blinds.  Why  should  you  ?  You  have  got  a  lot 
to  show!"  He  rose  with  this  for  the  third  time,  as  the 
better  to  command  the  scene.  "What  I  mean  is  that 
sofa  —  which  by  the  way  is  awfully  good :  you  do, 
my  dear  Nanda,  go  it!  It  certainly  was  here  the  last 
time,  was  n't  it  ?  and  this  thing  was  there.  The 
last  time  —  I  mean  the  last  time  I  was  up  here — was 
fearfully  long  ago :  when,  by  the  way,  was  it  ?  But  you 
see  I  have  been  and  that  I  remember  it.  And  you've 
a  lot  more  things  now.  You're  laying  up  treasure. 
Really  the  increase  of  luxury — !  What  an  awfully 
jolly  lot  of  books  —  have  you  read  them  all  ?  Where 
did  you  learn  so  much  about  bindings  ?" 

He  continued  to  talk;  he  took  things  up  and  put 
them  down;  Nanda  sat  in  her  place,  where  her  still 
ness,  fixed  and  colourless,  contrasted  with  his  rather 
flushed  freedom,  and  appeared  only  to  wait,  half 
in  surprise,  half  in  surrender,  for  the  flow  of  his  sug- 
gestiveness  to  run  its  course,  so  that,  having  herself 
provoked  the  occasion,  she  might  do  a  little  more  to 
meet  it.  It  was  by  no  means,  however,  that  his  pre 
sence  in  any  degree  ceased  to  prevail;  for  there  were 
minutes  during  which  her  face,  the  only  thing  in  her 
that  moved,  turning  with  his  turns  and  following  his 
glances,  actually  had  a  look  inconsistent  with  any 
thing  but  submission  to  almost  any  accident.  It  might 
have  expressed  a  desire  for  his  talk  to  last  and  last, 
an  acceptance  of  any  treatment  of  the  hour  or  any 
version,  or  want  of  version,  of  her  act  that  would  best 
suit  his  ease,  even  in  fact  a  resigned  prevision  of  the 
occurrence  of  something  that  would  leave  her, 
quenched  and  blank,  with  the  appearance  of  having 

494 


NANDA 

made  him  come  simply  that  she  might  look  at  him. 
She  might  indeed  well  have  been  aware  of  an  inability 
to  look  at  him  little  enough  to  make  it  flagrant  that 
she  had  appealed  to  him  for  something  quite  different. 
Keeping  the  situation  meanwhile  thus  in  his  hands 
he  recognised  over  the  chimney  a  new  alteration. 
"There  used  to  be  a  big  print  —  wasn't  there?  a 
thing  of  the  fifties  —  we  had  lots  of  them  at  home; 
some  place  or  other  'in  the  olden  time/  And  now 
there's  that  lovely  French  glass.  So  you  see."  He 
spoke  as  if  she  had  in  some  way  gainsaid  him, 
whereas  he  had  not  left  her  time  even  to  answer  a 
question.  But  he  broke  out  anew  on  the  beauty  of 
her  flowers.  "You  have  awfully  good  ones  — where 
do  you  get  them  ?  Flowers  and  pictures  and  —  what 
are  the  other  things  people  have  when  they  're  happy 
and  superior  ?  —  books  and  birds.  You  ought  to 
have  a  bird  or  two,  though  I  dare  say  you  think  that 
by  the  noise  I  make  I  'm  as  good  myself  as  a  dozen. 
Is  n't  there  some  girl  in  some  story  —  it  is  n't  Scott; 
what  is  it  ?  —  who  had  domestic  difficulties  and  a 
cage  in  her  window  and  whom  one  associates  with 
chickweed  and  virtue  ?  It  is  n't  Esmeralda  — 
Esmeralda  had  a  poodle,  had  n't  she  ?  —  or  have  I 
got  my  heroines  mixed  ?  You  're  up  here  yourself 
like  a  heroine;  you're  perched  in  your  tower  or  what 
do  you  call  it  ?  —  your  bower.  You  quite  hang  over 
the  place,  you  know  —  the  great  wicked  city,  the 
wonderful  London  sky  and  the  monuments  looming 
through :  or  am  I  again  only  muddling  up  my  Zola  ? 
You  must  have  the  sunsets  —  have  n't  you  ?  No  — 
what  am  I  talking  about  ?  Of  course  you  look  north. 

495 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

Well,  they  strike  me  as  about  the  only  thing  you 
have  n't.  At  the  same  time  it 's  not  only  because  I 
envy  you  that  I  feel  humiliated.  I  ought  to  have  sent 
you  some  flowers."  He  smote  himself  with  horror, 
throwing  back  his  head  with  a  sudden  thought.  "  Why 
in  goodness  when  I  got  your  note  did  n't  I  for  once  in 
my  life  do  something  really  graceful  ?  I  simply  liked 
it  and  answered  it.  Here  I  am.  But  I've  brought 
nothing.  I  have  n't  even  brought  a  box  of  sweets. 
I  'm  not  a  man  of  the  world." 

"Most  of  the  flowers  here,"  Nanda  at  last,  said, 
"  come  from  Mr.  Longdon.  Don't  you  remember  his 
garden  ?" 

Vanderbank,  in  quick  response,  called  it  up. 
"  Dear  yes  —  was  n't  it  charming  ?  And  that  morn 
ing  you  and  I  spent  there  "  —  he  was  so  careful  to  be 
easy  about  it  —  "talking  under  the  trees." 

"You  had  gone  out  to  be  quiet  and  read  — !" 

"And  you  came  out  to  look  after  me.  Well,  I 
remember,"  Van  went  on,  "that  we  had  some  good 
talk." 

The  talk,  Nanda's  face  implied,  had  become  dim 
to  her;  but  there  were  other  things.  "You  know  he 's 
a  great  gardener  —  I  mean  really  one  of  the  greatest. 
His  garden 's  like  a  dinner  in  a  house  where  the  per 
son  —  the  person  of  the  house  —  thoroughly  knows 
and  cares." 

"I  see.   And  he  sends  you  dishes  from  the  table." 

"Often  —  every  week.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing 
—  now  that  he 's  in  town  his  gardener  does  it." 

"Charming  of  them  both!"  Vanderbank  ex 
claimed.  "  But  his  gardener  —  that  extraordinarily 

496 


NANDA 

tall  fellow  with  the  long  red  beard  —  was  almost  as 
nice  as  himself.  I  had  talks  with  him  too  and  remem 
ber  every  word  he  said.  I  remember  he  told  me  you 
asked  questions  that  showed  'a  deal  of  study/  But  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  all  round  such  a  charming 
lot  of  people  —  I  mean  as  those  down  there  that  our 
friend  has  got  about  him.  It's  an  awfully  good  note 
for  a  man,  pleasant  servants,  I  always  think,  don't 
you  ?  Mr.  Longdon's  —  and  quite  without  their 
saying  anything;  just  from  the  sort  of  type  and 
manner  they  had  —  struck  me  as  a  kind  of  chorus  of 
praise.  The  same  with  Mitchy's  at  Mertle,  I  remem 
ber,"  Van  rambled  on.  "Mitchy's  the  sort  of  chap 
who  might  have  awful  ones,  but  I  recollect  telling 
him  that  one  quite  felt  as  if  it  were  with  them  one  had 
come  to  stay.  Good  note,  good  note,"  he  cheerfully 
repeated.  "I'm  bound  to  say,  you  know,"  he  con 
tinued  in  this  key,  "that  you've  a  jolly  sense  for 
getting  in  with  people  who  make  you  comfortable. 
Then,  by  the  way,  he's  still  in  town  ?" 

Nanda  waited.  "  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Mitchy  ? " 
"Oh  he  is,  I  know  —  I  met  them  two  nights  ago; 
and  by  the  way  again  —  don't  let  me  forget  —  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  about  his  wife.  But  I've  not 
seen,  do  you  know  ?  Mr.  Longdon  —  which  is  really 
too  awful.  Twice,  thrice  I  think,  have  I  at  moments 
like  this  one  snatched  myself  from  pressure;  but 
there 's  no  finding  the  old  demon  at  any  earthly  hour. 
When  do  you  go  —  or  does  he  only  come  here  ?  Of 
course  I  see  you've  got  the  place  arranged  for  him. 
When  I  asked  at  his  hotel  at  what  hour  he  ever  is  in, 
blest  if  the  fellow  did  n't  say  'Very  often,  sir,  about 

497 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

ten! '  And  when  I  said  'Ten  p.  M.  ?'  he  quite  laughed 
at  my  innocence  over  a  person  of  such  habits.  What 
are  his  habits  then  now,  and  what  are  you  putting 
him  up  to  ?  Seriously,"  Vanderbank  pursued,  "  I  am 
awfully  sorry  and  I  wonder  if,  the  first  time  you  've  a 
chance,  you  'd  kindly  tell  him  you  Ve  heard  me  say  so 
and  that  I  mean  yet  to  run  him  to  earth.  The  same 
really  with  the  dear  Mitchys.  I  did  n't  somehow,  the 
other  night,  in  such  a  lot  of  people,  get  at  them.  But 
I  sat  opposite  to  Aggie  all  through  dinner,  and  that 
puts  me  in  mind.  I  should  like  volumes  from  you 
about  Aggie,  please.  It 's  too  revolting  of  me  not  to 
go  to  see  her.  But  every  one  knows  I  'm  busy.  We  're 
up  to  our  necks !  " 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Nanda,  "how  kind  I  think 
it  of  you  to  have  found,  with  all  you  have  to  do,  a 
moment  for  this.  But  please,  without  delay,  let  me 
tell  you—!" 

Practically,  however,  he  would  let  her  tell  him 
nothing;  his  almost  aggressive  friendly  optimism 
clung  so  to  references  of  short  range.  "  Don't  men 
tion  it,  please.  It 's  too  charming  of  you  to  squeeze 
me  in.  To  see  you  moreover  does  me  good.  Quite 
distinct  good.  And  your  writing  me  touched  me  — 
oh  but  really.  There  were  all  sorts  of  old  things  in  it." 
Then  he  broke  out  once  more  on  her  books,  one  of 
which  for  some  minutes  past  he  had  held  in  his  hand. 
"  I  see  you  go  in  for  sets  —  and,  my  dear  child,  upon 
my  word,  I  see,  big  sets.  What's  this  ?  —  'Vol.  23: 
The  British  Poets.'  Vol.  23  is  delightful  —  do  tell  me 
about  Vol.  23.  Are  you  doing  much  in  the  British 
Poets  ?  But  when  the  deuce,  you  wonderful  being, 

498 


NANDA 

do  you  find  time  to  read  ?  /  don't  find  any  —  it 's  too 
hideous.  One  relapses  in  London  into  such  illiteracy 
and  barbarism.  I  have  to  keep  up  a  false  glitter  to 
hide  in  conversation  my  rapidly  increasing  ignorance: 
I  should  be  so  ashamed  after  all  to  see  other  people 
not  shocked  by  it.  But  teach  me,  teach  me ! "  he  gaily 
went  on. 

"The  British  Poets,"  Nanda  immediately  an 
swered,  "were  given  me  by  Mr.  Longdon,  who  has 
given  me  all  the  good  books  I  have  except  a  few  — 
those  in  that  top  row  —  that  have  been  given  me  at 
different  times  by  Mr.  Mitchy.  Mr.  Mitchy  has  sent 
me  flowers  too,  as  well  as  Mr.  Longdon.  And  they're 
both  —  since  we  've  spoken  of  my  seeing  them  — 
coming  by  appointment  this  afternoon;  not  together, 
but  Mr.  Mitchy  at  5.30  and  Mr.  Longdon  at  6.30." 

She  had  spoken  as  with  conscious  promptitude, 
making  up  for  what  she  had  not  yet  succeeded  in 
saying  by  a  quick,  complete  statement  of  her  case. 
She  was  evidently  also  going  on  with  more,  but  her 
actual  visitor  had  already  taken  her  up  with  a  laugh. 
"You  are  making  a  day  of  it  and  you  run  us  like  rail 
way-trains  !  "  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Have  /  then 
time?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  should  say  '  Have  /  ? '  But  it 's 
not  half-past  four,"  Nanda  went  on,  "and  though 
I  've  something  very  particular  of  course  to  say  to 
you  it  won't  take  long.  They  don't  bring  tea  till  five, 
and  you  must  surely  stay  till  that.  I  had  already  writ 
ten  to  you  when  they  each,  for  the  same  reason,  pro 
posed  this  afternoon.  They  go  out  of  town  to-morrow 
for  Sunday." 

499 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"  Oh  I  see  —  and  they  have  to  see  you  first.  WTiat 
an  influence  you  exert,  you  know,  on  people's  be 
haviour  ! " 

She  continued  as  literal  as  her  friend  was  facetious. 
"Well,  it  just  happened  so,  and  it  did  n't  matter, 
since,  on  my  asking  you,  don't  you  know  ?  to  choose 
your  time,  you  had  taken,  as  suiting  you  best,  this 
comparatively  early  hour." 

"Oh  perfectly."  But  he  again  had  his  watch  out. 
"  I  've  a  job,  perversely  —  that  was  my  reason  —  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world;  which,  by  the  way,  I'm 
afraid,  won't  permit  me  to  wait  for  tea.  My  tea 
does  n't  matter."  The  watch  went  back  to  his  pocket. 
"  I  'm  sorry  to  say  I  must  be  off  before  five.  It  has 
been  delightful  at  all  events  to  see  you  again." 

He  was  on  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  and  though  he  had 
been  half  the  time  on  his  feet  his  last  words  gave  the 
effect  of  his  moving  almost  immediately  to  the  door. 
It  appeared  to  come  out  with  them  rather  clearer 
than  before  that  he  was  embarrassed  enough  really 
to  need  help,  and  it  was  doubtless  the  measure  she 
after  an  instant  took  of  this  that  enabled  Nanda,  with 
a  quietness  all  her  own,  to  draw  to  herself  a  little  more 
of  the  situation.  The  quietness  was  plainly  deter 
mined  for  her  by  a  quick  vision  of  its  being  the  best 
assistance  she  could  show.  Had  he  an  inward  terror 
that  explained  his  superficial  nervousness,  the  in 
coherence  of  a  loquacity  designed,  it  would  seem,  to 
check  in  each  direction  her  advance  ?  He  only  fed  it 
in  that  case  by  allowing  his  precautionary  benevol 
ence  to  put  him  in  so  much  deeper.  Where  indeed 
could  he  have  supposed  she  wanted  to  come  out, 

500 


NANDA 

and  what  that  she  could  ever  do  for  him  would  really 
be  so  beautiful  as  this  present  chance  to  smooth  his 
confusion  and  add  as  much  as  possible  to  that  refined 
satisfaction  with  himself  which  would  proceed  from 
his  having  dealt  with  a  difficult  hour  in  a  gallant  and 
delicate  way  ?  To  force  upon  him  an  awkwardness 
was  like  forcing  a  disfigurement  or  a  hurt,  so  that 
at  the  end  of  a  minute,  during  which  the  expression 
of  her  face  became  a  kind  of  uplifted  view  of  her 
opportunity,  she  arrived  at  the  appearance  of  having 
changed  places  with  him  and  of  their  being  together 
precisely  in  order  that  he  —  not  she  —  should  be  let 
down  easily. 


II 


"Birr  surely  you're  not  going  already  ?"  she  asked. 
"Why  in  the  world  then  do  you  suppose  I  appealed  to 
you?" 

"Bless  me,  no;  I've  lots  of  time."  He  dropped, 
laughing  for  very  eagerness,  straight  into  another 
chair.  "You're  too  awfully  interesting.  Is  it  really 
an  'appeal'  ?"  Putting  the  question  indeed  he  could 
scarce  even  yet  allow  her  a  chance  to  answer  it.  "  It 's 
only  that  you  make  me  a  little  nervous  with  your 
account  of  all  the  people  who  are  going  to  tumble  in. 
And  there's  one  thing  more,"  he  quickly  went  on; 
"I  just  want  to  make  the  point  in  case  we  should  be 
interrupted.  The  whole  fun  is  in  seeing  you  this  way 
alone." 

"Is  that  the  point?"  Nanda,  as  he  took  breath, 
gravely  asked. 

"That's  a  part  of  it  —  I  feel  it,  I  assure  you,  to  be 
charming.  But  what  I  meant  —  if  you  'd  only  give 
me  time,  you  know,  to  put  in  a  word  —  is  what  for 
that  matter  I've  already  told  you:  that  it  almost 
spoils  my  pleasure  for  you  to  keep  reminding  me  that 
a  bit  of  luck  like  this  —  luck  for  me:  I  see  you  com 
ing  !  —  is  after  all  for  you  but  a  question  of  business. 
Hang  business !  Good  —  don't  stab  me  with  that 
paper-knife.  I  listen.  What  is  the  great  affair  ? " 
Then  as  it  looked  for  an  instant  as  if  the  words  she 
had  prepared  were  just,  in  the  supreme  pinch  of  her 

502 


NANDA 

need,  falling  apart,  he  once  more  tried  his  advantage. 
"  Oh  if  there 's  any  difficulty  about  it  let  it  go  —  we  '11 
take  it  for  granted.  There 's  one  thing  at  any  rate  — 
do  let  me  say  this  —  that  I  should  like  you  to  keep 
before  me:  I  want  before  I  go  to  make  you  light  up 
for  me  the  question  of  little  Aggie.  Oh  there  are  other 
questions  too  as  to  which  I  regard  you  as  a  perfect 
fountain  of  curious  knowledge  !  However,  we  '11  take 
them  one  by  one  —  the  next  some  other  time.  You 
always  seem  to  me  to  hold  the  strings  of  such  a  lot 
of  queer  little  dramas.  Have  something  on  the  shelf 
for  me  when  we  meet  again.  The  thing  just  now  is 
the  outlook  for  Mitchy's  affair.  One  cares  enough 
for  old  Mitch  to  fancy  one  may  feel  safer  for  a  lead 
or  two.  In  fact  I  want  regularly  to  turn  you  on." 

"Ah  but  the  thing  I  happen  to  have  taken  it  into 
my  head  to  say  to  you,"  Nanda  now  securely  enough 
replied,  "hasn't  the  least  bit  to  do,  I  assure  you, 
either  with  Aggie  or  with  'old  Mitch.'  If  you  don't 
want  to  hear  it  —  want  some  way  of  getting  off  — 
please  believe  they  won't  help  you  a  bit."  It  was  quite 
in  fact  that  she  felt  herself  at  last  to  have  found  the 
right  tone.  Nothing  less  than  a  conviction  of  this 
could  have  made  her  after  an  instant  add:  "What  in 
the  world,  Mr.  Van,  are  you  afraid  of?" 

Well,  that  it  was  the  right  tone  a  single  little  minute 
was  sufficient  to  prove  —  a  minute,  I  must  yet  haste 
to  say,  big  enough  in  spite  of  its  smallness  to  contain 
the  longest  look  on  any  occasion  exchanged  between 
these  friends.  It  was  one  of  those  looks  —  not  so 
frequent,  it  must  be  admitted,  as  the  muse  of  history, 
dealing  at  best  in  short  cuts,  is  often  by  the  conditions 

503 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

of  her  trade  reduced  to  representing  them  —  which 
after  they  have  come  and  gone  are  felt  not  only  to 
have  changed  relations  but  absolutely  to  have  cleared 
the  air.  It  certainly  helped  Vanderbank  to  find  his 
answer.  "I'm  only  afraid,  I  think,  of  your  con 
science." 

He  had  been  indeed  for  the  space  more  helped  than 
she.  "My  conscience  ?" 

"Think  it  over  —  quite  at  your  leisure  —  and  some 
day  you'll  understand.  There's  no  hurry,"  he  con 
tinued  —  "no  hurry.  And  when  you  do  understand, 
it  need  n't  make  your  existence  a  burden  to  you  to 
fancy  you  must  tell  me."  Oh  he  was  so  kind  —  kinder 
than  ever  now.  "The  thing  is,  you  see,  that  /  have  n't 
a  conscience.  I  only  want  my  fun." 

They  had  on  this  a  second  look,  also  decidedly 
comfortable,  though  discounted,  as  the  phrase  is,  by 
the  other,  which  had  really  in  its  way  exhausted  the 
possibilities  of  looks.  "  Oh  I  want  my  fun  too,"  said 
Nanda,  "  and  little  as  it  may  strike  you  in  some  ways 
as  looking  like  it,  just  this,  I  beg  you  to  believe,  is  the 
real  thing.  What 's  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  she  went  on, 
"is  a  talk  I  had  not  long  ago  with  mother." 

"Oh  yes,"  Van  returned  with  brightly  blushing 
interest.  "The  fun,"  he  laughed,  "that's  to  be  got 
out  of  '  mother ' ! " 

"Oh  I  'm  not  thinking  so  much  of  that.  I  'm  think 
ing  of  any  that  she  herself  may  be  still  in  a  position 
to  pick  up.  Mine  now,  don't  you  see  ?  is  in  making 
out  how  I  can  manage  for  this.  Of  course  it 's  rather 
difficult,"  the  girl  pursued,  "  for  me  to  tell  you  exactly 
what  I  mean." 

5°4 


NANDA 

"Oh  but  it  is  n't  a  bit  difficult  for  me  to  understand 
you ! "  Vanderbank  spoke,  in  his  geniality,  as  if  this 
were  in  fact  the  veriest  trifle.  "  You  've  got  your  mo 
ther  on  your  mind.  That's  very  much  what  I  mean 
by  your  conscience." 

Nanda  had  a  fresh  hesitation,  but  evidently  un 
accompanied  at  present  by  any  pain.  "Don't  you 
still  like  mamma?"  she  at  any  rate  quite  success 
fully  brought  out.  "I  must  tell  you,"  she  quickly 
subjoined,  "  that  though  I  've  mentioned  my  talk  with 
her  as  having  finally  led  to  my  writing  to  you,  it  is  n't 
in  the  least  that  she  then  suggested  my  putting  you 
the  question.  I  put  it,"  she  explained,  "quite  off  my 
own  bat." 

The  explanation,  as  an  effect  immediately  pro 
duced,  did  proportionately  much  for  the  visitor,  who 
sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  pleased  —  a  distinctly 
exhilarated  —  sense  both  of  what  he  himself  and 
what  Nanda  had  done.  "  You  're  an  adorable  family ! " 

"Well  then  if  mother's  adorable  why  give  her  up  ? 
This  I  don't  mind  admitting  she  did,  the  day  I  speak 
of,  let  me  see  that  she  feels  you've  done;  but  with 
out  suggesting  either  —  not  a  scrap,  please  believe 

—  that  I  should  make  you  any  sort  of  scene  about 
it.    Of  course  in  the  first  place  she  knows  perfectly 
that  anything  like  a  scene  would  be  no  use.     You 
could  n't  make  out  even  if  you  wanted,"  Nanda  went 
on,  "that  this  is  one.    She  won't  hear  us  —  will  she  ? 

—  smashing  the  furniture.   I  did  n't  think  for  a  while 
that  I  could  do  anything  at  all,  and  I  worried  myself 
with  that  idea  half  to  death.   Then  suddenly  it  came 
to  me  that  I  could  do  just  what  I  'm  doing  now.  You 

5°5 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

said  a  while  ago  that  we  must  never  be  —  you  and 
I  —  anything  but  frank  and  natural.  That's  what 
I  said  to  myself  also  —  why  not  ?  Here  I  am  for  you 
therefore  as  natural  as  a  cold  in  your  head.  I  just  ask 
you  —  I  even  press  you.  It's  because,  as  she  said, 
you  've  practically  ceased  coming.  Of  course  I  know 
everything  changes.  It 's  the  law  —  what  is  it  ?  — 
'the  great  law'  of  something  or  other.  All  sorts  of 
things  happen  —  things  come  to  an  end.  She  has 
more  or  less  —  by  his  marriage  —  lost  Mitchy.  I 
don't  want  her  to  lose  everything.  Do  stick  to  her. 
What  I  really  wanted  to  say  to  you  —  to  bring  it 
straight  out  —  is  that  I  don't  believe  you  thoroughly 
know  how  awfully  she  likes  you.  I  hope  my  saying 
such  a  thing  does  n't  affect  you  as  '  immodest.'  One 
never  knows  —  but  I  don't  much  care  if  it  does.  I 
suppose  it  would  be  immodest  if  I  were  to  say  that 
I  verily  believe  she 's  in  love  with  you.  Not,  for  that 
matter,  that  father  would  mind  —  he  would  n't  mind, 
as  he  says,  a  tuppenny  rap.  So  " —  she  extraordinar 
ily  kept  it  up  —  "you're  welcome  to  any  good  the 
information  may  have  for  you:  though  that,  I  dare 
say,  does  sound  hideous.  No  matter  —  if  I  produce 
any  effect  on  you.  That's  the  only  thing  I  want. 
When  I  think  of  her  downstairs  there  so  often  now 
adays  practically  alone  I  feel  as  if  I  could  scarcely 
bear  it.  She's  so  fearfully  young." 

This  time  at  least  her  speech,  while  she  went  from 
point  to  point,  completely  hushed  him,  though  after  a 
full  glimpse  of  the  direction  it  was  taking  he  ceased 
to  meet  her  eyes  and  only  sat  staring  hard  at  the  pat 
tern  of  the  rug.  Even  when  at  last  he  spoke  it  was 

506 


NANDA 

without  looking  up.  "You're  indeed,  as  she  herself 
used  to  say,  the  modern  daughter!  It  takes  that  type 
to  wish  to  make  a  career  for  her  parents." 

"Oh,"  said  Nanda  very  simply,  "it  isn't  a  'ca 
reer  '  exactly,  is  it  —  keeping  hold  of  an  old  friend  ? 
but  it  may  console  a  little,  may  n't  it,  for  the  absence 
of  one  ?  At  all  events  I  did  n't  want  not  to  have  spoken 
before  it 's  too  late.  Of  course  I  don't  know  what 's 
the  matter  between  you,  or  if  anything 's  really  the 
matter  at  all.  I  don't  care  at  any  rate  what  is  —  it 
can't  be  anything  very  bad.  Make  it  up,  make  it  up 
—  forget  it.  I  don't  pretend  that's  a  career  for  you 
any  more  than  for  her;  but  there  it  is.  I  know  how 
I  sound  —  most  patronising  and  pushing;  but  no 
thing  venture  nothing  have.  You  cant  know  how 
much  you  are  to  her.  You're  more  to  her,  I  verily 
believe,  than  any  one  ever  was.  I  hate  to  have  the 
appearance  of  plotting  anything  about  her  behind 
her  back ;  so  I  '11  just  say  it  once  for  all.  She  said 
once,  in  speaking  of  it  to  a  person  who  repeated  it  to 
me,  that  you  had  done  more  for  her  than  any  one, 
because  it  was  you  who  had  really  brought  her  out. 
It  was.  You  did.  I  saw  it  at  the  time  myself.  I  was 
very  small,  but  I  could  see  it.  You  '11  say  I  must  have 
been  a  most  uncanny  little  wretch,  and  I  dare  say  I 
was  and  am  keeping  now  the  pleasant  promise.  That 
does  n't  prevent  one's  feeling  that  when  a  person  has 
brought  a  person  out  — " 

"A  person  should  take  the  consequences,"  Van- 
derbank  broke  in,  "and  see  a  person  through  ?"  He 
could  meet  her  now  perfectly  and  proceeded  admir 
ably  to  do  it.  "There's  an  immense  deal  in  that, 

507 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

I  admit  —  I  admit.  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  don't  know 
quite  what  I  did  —  one  does  those  things,  no  doubt, 
with  a  fine  unconsciousness:  I  should  have  thought 
indeed  it  was  the  other  way  round.  But  I  assure  you 
I  accept  all  consequences  and  all  responsibilities.  If 
you  don't  know  what's  the  matter  between  us  I'm 
sure  /  don't  either.  It  can't  be  much  —  we  '11  look 
into  it.  I  don't  mean  you  and  I  —  you  must  n't  be 
any  more  worried;  but  she  and  her  so  unwittingly 
faithless  one.  I  haven't  been  as  often,  I  know"  — 
Van  pleasantly  kept  his  course.  "  But  there 's  a  tide 
in  the  affairs  of  men  —  and  of  women  too,  and  of 
girls  and  of  every  one.  You  know  what  I  mean  — 
you  know  it  for  yourself.  The  great  thing  is  that  — 
bless  both  your  hearts !  —  one  does  n't,  one  simply 
can't  if  one  would,  give  your  mother  up.  It's  absurd 
to  talk  about  it.  Nobody  ever  did  such  a  thing  in  his 
life.  There  she  is,  like  the  moon  or  the  Marble  Arch. 
I  don't  say,  mind  you,"  he  candidly  explained,  "that 
every  one  likes  her  equally:  that's  another  affair. 
But  no  one  who  ever  has  liked  her  can  afford  ever 
again  for  any  long  period  to  do  without  her.  There 
are  too  many  stupid  people  —  there 's  too  much  dull 
company.  That,  in  London,  is  to  be  had  by  the  ton; 
your  mother's  intelligence,  on  the  other  hand,  will 
always  have  its  price.  One  can  talk  with  her  for  a 
change.  She 's  fine,  fine,  fine.  So,  my  dear  child,  be 
quiet.  She's  a  fixed  star." 

"Oh  I  know  she  is,"  Nanda  said.    "It's  you— " 

"Who  may  be  only  the  flashing  meteor  ?"    He  sat 

and  smiled  at  her.     "I  promise  you  then  that  your 

words  have  stayed  me  in  my  course.    You've  made 

508 


NANDA 

me  stand  as  still  as  Joshua  made  the  sun."  With 
which  he  got  straight  up.  "'Young,'  you  say  she  is  ?" 
—  for  as  if  to  make  up  for  it  he  all  the  more  sociably 
continued.  "  It 's  not  like  anything  else.  She 's  youth. 
She 's  my  youth  —  she  was  mine.  And  if  you  ever 
have  a  chance,"  he  wound  up,  "do  put  in  for  me  that 
if  she  wants  really  to  know  she 's  booked  for  my  old 
age.  She's  clever  enough,  you  know"  —  and  Van- 
derbank,  laughing,  went  over  for  his  hat  —  "  to  un 
derstand  what  you  tell  her." 

Nanda  took  this  in  with  due  attention;  she  was 
also  now  on  her  feet.  "And  then  she's  so  lovely." 

"Awfully  pretty!" 

"I  don't  say  it,  as  they  say,  you  know,"  the  girl 
continued,  "because  she's  mother,  but  I  often  think 
when  we're  out  that  wherever  she  is  — !" 

"There's  no  one  that  all  round  really  touches 
her?"  Vanderbank  took  it  up  with  zeal.  "Oh  so 
every  one  thinks,  and  in  fact  one's  appreciation  of  the 
charming  things  in  that  way  so  intensely  her  own  can 
scarcely  breathe  on  them  all  lightly  enough.  And 
then,  hang  it,  she  has  perceptions  —  which  are  not 
things  that  run  about  the  streets.  She  has  surprises." 
He  almost  broke  down  for  vividness.  "She  has  little 
ways." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  do  like  her,"  Nanda  gravely 
replied. 

At  this  again  he  fairly  faced  her,  his  momentary 
silence  making  it  still  more  direct.  "I  like,  you  know, 
about  as  well  as  I  ever  liked  anything,  this  wonderful 
idea  of  yours  of  putting  in  a  plea  for  her  solitude  and 
her  youth.  Don't  think  I  do  it  injustice  if  I  say  — 

509 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

which  is  saying  much  —  that  it's  quite  as  charming 
as  it's  amusing.  And  now  good-bye." 

He  had  put  out  his  hand,  but  Nanda  hesitated. 
"  You  won't  wait  for  tea  ? " 

"My  dear  child,  I  can't."  He  seemed  to  feel,  how 
ever,  that  something  more  must  be  said.  "We  shall 
meet  again.  But  it's  getting  on,  is  n't  it,  toward  the 
general  scatter  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  hope  that  this  year,"  she  answered, 
"you'll  have  a  good  holiday." 

"Oh  we  shall  meet  before  that.  I  shall  do  what 
I  can,  but  upon  my  word  I  feel,  you  know,"  he 
laughed,  "that  such  a  tuning-up  as  you've  given 
me  will  last  me  a  long  time.  It's  like  the  high  Alps." 
Then  with  his  hand  out  again  he  added :  "  Have  you 
any  plans  yourself?" 

So  many,  it  might  have  seemed,  that  she  had  no 
time  to  take  for  thinking  of  them.  "I  dare  say  I  shall 
be  away  a  good  deal." 

He  candidly  wondered.    "With  Mr.  Longdon  ?" 

"Yes  —  with  him  most." 

He  had  another  pause.    "Really  for  a  long  time  ?" 

"A  long  long  one,  I  hope." 

"Your  mother's  willing  again  ?" 

"Oh  perfectly.    And  you  see  that's  why." 

"Why  ? "  She  had  said  nothing  more,  and  he  failed 
to  understand. 

"Why  you  mustn't  too  much  leave  her  alone. 
Don't!"  Nanda  brought  out. 

"I  won't.  But,"  he  presently  added,  "there  are 
one  or  two  things." 

"Well,  what  are  they?" 


NANDA 

He  produced  in  some  seriousness  the  first.  "Won't 
she  after  all  see  the  Mitchys  ? " 

"Not  so  much  either.  That  of  course  is  now  very 
different." 

Vanderbank  demurred.  "  But  not  for  you,  I  gather 
—  is  it  ?  Don't  you  expect  to  see  them  ?" 

"Oh  yes  —  I  hope  they'll  come  down." 

He  moved  away  a  little  —  not  straight  to  the  door. 
"  To  Beccles  ?  Funny  place  for  them,  a  little  though, 
is  n't  it?" 

He  had  put  the  question  as  if  for  amusement,  but 
Nanda  took  it  literally.  "Ah  not  when  they're  invited 
so  very  very  charmingly.  Not  when  he  wants  them  so." 

"Mr.  Longdon  ?    Then  that  keeps  up  ?" 

"'That'  ?"  —  she  was  at  a  loss. 

"  I  mean  his  intimacy  —  with  Mitchy." 

"So  far  as  it  is  an  intimacy." 

"But  did  n't  you,  by  the  way"  —  and  he  looked 
again  at  his  watch  —  "  tell  me  they  're  just  about  to 
turn  up  together  ? " 

"Oh  not  so  very 'particularly  together." 

"Mitchy  first  alone  ?"  Vanderbank  asked. 

She  had  a  smile  that  was  dim,  that  was  slightly 
strange.  "Unless  you'll  stay  for  company." 

"Thanks  —  impossible.  And  then  Mr.  Longdon 
alone?" 

"Unless  Mitchy  stays." 

He  had  another  pause.  "You  have  n't  after  all 
told  me  about  the  '  evolution '  —  or  the  evolutions  — 
of  his  wife." 

"  How  can  I  if  you  don't  give  me  time  ? " 

"  I  see  —  of  course  not."   He  seemed  to  feel  for  an 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

instant  the  return  of  his  curiosity.  "  Yet  it  won't  do, 
will  it  ?  to  have  her  out  before  him?  No,  I  must  go." 
He  came  back  to  her  and  at  present  she  gave  him 
a  hand.  "  But  if  you  do  see  Mr.  Longdon  alone  will 
you  do  me  a  service  ?  I  mean  indeed  not  simply  to 
day,  but  with  all  other  good  chances  ?" 

She  waited.  "Any  service  whatever.  But  which 
first?" 

"Well,"  he  returned  in  a  moment,  "let  us  call  it 
a  bargain.  I  look  after  your  mother — " 

"And  I  —  ?"    She  had  had  to  wait  again. 

"Look  after  my  good  name.  I  mean  for  common 
decency  to  him.  He  has  been  of  a  kindness  to  me  that, 
when  I  think  of  my  failure  to  return  it,  makes  me 
blush  from  head  to  foot.  I  've  odiously  neglected  him 
—  by  a  complication  of  accidents.  There  are  things 
I  ought  to  have  done  that  I  have  n't.  There 's  one 
in  particular  —  but  it  does  n't  matter.  And  I  have  n't 
even  explained  about  that.  I've  been  a  brute  and 
I  did  n't  mean  it  and  I  could  n't  help  it.  But  there  it 
is.  Say  a  good  word  for  me.  Make  out  somehow  or 
other  that  I  'm  not  a  beast.  In  short,"  the  young  man 
said,  quite  flushed  once  more  with  the  intensity  of 
his  thought,  "let  us  have  it  that  you  may  quite  trust 
me  if  you  '11  let  me  a  little  —  just  for  my  character 
as  a  gentleman  —  trust  you." 

"Ah  you  may  trust  me,"  Nanda  replied  with  her 
handshake. 

"Good-bye  then!"  he  called  from  the  door. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  after  he  had  closed  it. 


Ill 


IT  was  half-past  five  when  Mitchy  turned  up;  and 
her  relapse  had  in  the  mean  time  known  no  arrest 
but  the  arrival  of  tea,  which,  however,  she  had  left 
unnoticed.  He  expressed  on  entering  the  fear  that 
he  failed  of  exactitude,  to  which  she  replied  by  the 
assurance  that  he  was  on  the  contrary  remarkably 
near  it  and  by  the  mention  of  all  the  aid  to  patience 
she  had  drawn  from  the  pleasure  of  half  an  hour  with 
Mr.  Van  —  an  allusion  that  of  course  immediately 
provoked  on  Mitchy's  part  the  liveliest  interest.  "  He 
has  risked  it  at  last  then  ?  How  tremendously  excit 
ing!  And  your  mother?"  he  went  on;  after  which, 
as  she  said  nothing:  "Did  she  see  him,  I  mean,  and 
is  he  perhaps  with  her  now  ? " 

"No;  she  won't  have  come  in  —  unless  you  asked." 
"I  did  n't  ask.    I  asked  only  for  you." 
Nanda  thought  an  instant.   "  But  you  '11  still  some 
times  come  to  see  her,  won't  you  ?  I  mean  you  won't 
ever  give  her  up  ?" 

Mitchy  at  this  laughed  out.  "My  dear  child, 
you're  an  adorable  family!" 

She  took  it  placidly  enough.  "That's  what  Mr. 
Van  said.  He  said  I'm  trying  to  make  a  career  for 
her." 

"Did  he  ?"  Her  visitor,  though  without  prejudice 
to  his  amusement,  appeared  struck.  "You  must  have 
got  in  with  him  rather  deep." 

513 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

She  again  considered.  "Well,  I  think  I  did  rather. 
He  was  awfully  beautiful  and  kind." 

"Oh,"  Mitchy  concurred,  "trust  him  always  for 
that!" 

"He  wrote  me,  on  my  note,"  Nanda  pursued,  "a 
tremendously  good  answer." 

Mitchy  was  struck  afresh.  "Your  note?  What 
note?" 

"To  ask  him  to  come.  I  wrote  at  the  beginning  of 
the  week." 

"  Oh  —  I  see,"  Mitchy  observed  as  if  this  were 
rather  different.  "  He  could  n't  then  of  course  have 
done  less  than  come." 

Yet  his  companion  again  thought.  "  I  don't  know." 

"  Oh  come  —  I  say :  you  do  know,"  Mitchy 
laughed.  "  I  should  like  to  see  him  —  or  you  either! " 
There  would  have  been  for  a  continuous  spectator 
of  these  episodes  an  odd  resemblance  between  the 
manner  and  all  the  movements  that  had  followed  his 
entrance  and  those  that  had  accompanied  the  in 
stallation  of  his  predecessor.  He  laid  his  hat,  as  Van- 
derbank  had  done,  in  three  places  in  succession  and 
appeared  to  question  scarcely  less  the  safety,  some 
where,  of  his  umbrella  and  the  grace  of  retaining  in 
his  hand  his  gloves.  He  postponed  the  final  selection 
of  a  seat  and  he  looked  at  the  objects  about  him  while 
he  spoke  of  other  matters.  Quite  in  the  same  fashion 
indeed  at  last  these  objects  impressed  him.  "How 
charming  you  've  made  your  room  and  what  a  lot  of 
nice  things  you've  got!" 

"That's  just  what  Mr.  Van  said  too.  He  seemed 
immensely  struck." 

5H 


NANDA 

But  Mitchy  hereupon  once  more  had  a  drop  to 
extravagance.  "Can  I  do  nothing  then  but  repeat 
him  ?  I  came,  you  know,  to  be  original." 

"It  would  be  original  for  you,"  Nanda  promptly 
returned,  "  to  be  at  all  like  him.  But  you  won't,"  she 
went  back,  "  not  sometimes  come  for  mother  only  ? 
You  '11  have  plenty  of  chances." 

This  he  took  up  with  more  gravity.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  chances  ?  That  you  're  going  away  ?  That 
will  add  to  the  attraction! "  he  exclaimed  as  she  kept 
silence. 

"I  shall  have  to  wait,"  she  answered  at  last,  "to 
tell  you  definitely  what  I'm  to  do.  It's  all  in  the  air 
—  yet  I  think  I  shall  know  to-day.  I'm  to  see  Mr. 
Longdon." 

Mitchy  wondered.    "To-day?" 

"He's  coming  at  half-past  six." 

"And  then  you'll  know?" 

"Well  —  he  will." 

"Mr.  Longdon?" 

"  I  meant  Mr.  Longdon,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

Mitchy  had  his  watch  out.  "Then  shall  I  inter 
fere?" 

"There  are  quantities  of  time.  You  must  have  your 
tea.  You  see  at  any  rate,"  the  girl  continued,  "what 
I  mean  by  your  chances." 

She  had  made  him  his  tea,  which  he  had  taken. 
"You  do  squeeze  us  in!" 

"Well,  it's  an  accident  your  coming  together  — 
except  of  course  that  you  're  not  together.  I  simply 
took  the  time  that  you  each  independently  proposed. 
But  it  would  have  been  all  right  even  if  you  had  met. 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

That  is,  I  mean,"  she  explained,  "even  if  you  and  Mr. 
Longdon  do.  Mr.  Van,  I  confess,  I  did  want  alone." 

Mitchy  had  been  glaring  at  her  over  his  tea. 
"You're  more  and  more  remarkable!" 

"Well  then  if  I  improve  so  give  me  your  promise." 

Mitchy,  as  he  partook  of  refreshment,  kept  up  his 
thoughtful  gaze.  "  I  shall  presently  want  some  more, 
please.  But  do  you  mind  my  asking  if  Van  knew  — ' 

"  That  Mr.  Longdon 's  to  come  ?  Oh  yes,  I  told 
him,  and  he  left  with  me  a  message  for  him." 

"A  message  ?    How  awfully  interesting!" 

Nanda  thought.  "  It  will  be  awfully  —  to  Mr. 
Longdon." 

"Some  more  now,  please,"  said  Mitchy  while  she 
took  his  cup.  "And  to  Mr.  Longdon  only,  eh  ?  Is  that 
a  way  of  saying  that  it's  none  of  my  business  ?" 

The  fact  of  her  attending  —  and  with  a  happy 
show  of  particular  care  —  to  his  immediate  material 
want  added  somehow,  as  she  replied,  to  her  effect  of 
sincerity.  "Ah,  Mr.  Mitchy,  the  business  of  mine 
that  has  not  by  this  time  ever  so  naturally  become 
a  business  of  yours  —  well,  I  can't  think  of  any  just 
now,  and  I  would  n't,  you  know,  if  I  could ! " 

"I  can  promise  you  then  that  there's  none  of 
mine,"  Mitchy  declared,  "that  hasn't  made  by  the 
same  token  quite  the  same  shift.  Keep  it  well  before 
you,  please,  that  if  ever  a  young  woman  had  a  grave 
lookout — !" 

"What  do  you  mean,"  she  interrupted,  "by  a  grave 
lookout?" 

"Well,  the  certainty  of  finding  herself  saddled  for 
all  time  to  come  with  the  affairs  of  a  gentleman  whom 

516 


NANDA 

she  can  never  get  rid  of  on  the  specious  plea  that  he's 
only  her  husband  or  her  lover  or  her  father  or  her  son 
or  her  brother  or  her  uncle  or  her  cousin.  There,  as 
none  of  these  characters,  he  just  stands." 

"Yes,"  Nanda  kindly  mused,  "he's  simply  her 
Mitchy." 

"  Precisely.  And  a  Mitchy,  you  see,  is  —  what  do 
you  call  it  ?  —  simply  indissoluble.  He 's  moreover 
inordinately  inquisitive.  He  goes  to  the  length  of 
wondering  whether  Van  also  learned  that  you  were 
expecting  me" 

"Oh  yes  —  I  told  him  everything." 

Mitchy  smiled.    "Everything?" 

"  I  told  him  —  I  told  him,"  she  replied  with  impa 
tience. 

Mitchy  hesitated.  "And  did  he  then  leave  me  also 
a  message  ?" 

"  No,  nothing.  What  I  'm  to  do  for  him  with  Mr. 
Longdon,"  she  immediately  explained,  "is  to  make 
practically  a  kind  of  apology." 

"Ah  and  for  me"  —  Mitchy  quickly  took  it  up  — 
"there  can  be  no  question  of  anything  of  that  kind. 
I  see.  He  has  done  me  no  wrong." 

Nanda,  with  her  eyes  now  on  the  window,  turned  it 
over.  "  I  don't  much  think  he  would  know  even  if  he 
had." 

"  I  see,  I  see.    And  we  would  n't  tell  him." 

She  turned  with  some  abruptness  from  the  outer 
view.  "We  would  n't  tell  him.  But  he  was  beautiful 
all  round,"  she  went  on.  "No  one  could  have  been 
nicer  about  having  for  so  long,  for  instance,  come  so 
little  to  the  house.  As  if  he  had  n't  only  too  many 

517 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

other  things  to  do!  He  did  n't  even  make  them  out 
nearly  the  good  reasons  he  might.  But  fancy,  with 
his  important  duties  —  all  the  great  affairs  on  his 
hands  —  our  making  vulgar  little  rows  about  being 
'neglected'!  He  actually  made  so  little  of  what  he 
might  easily  plead  —  speaking  so,  I  mean,  as  if  he 
were  all  in  the  wrong  —  that  one  had  almost  positively 
to  show  him  his  excuses.  As  if"  —  she  really  kept  it 
up  —  "  he  has  n't  plenty ! " 

"It's  only  people  like  me,"  Mitchy  threw  out, 
"who  have  none?" 

"Yes  —  people  like  you.  People  of  no  use,  of  no 
occupation  and  no  importance.  Like  you,  you  know," 
she  pursued,  "there  are  so  many."  Then  it  was  with 
no  transition  of  tone  that  she  added:  "If  you're  bad, 
Mitchy,  I  won't  tell  you  anything." 

"And  if  I  'm  good  what  will  you  tell  me  ?  What  I 
want  really  most  to  know  is  why  he  should  be,  as  you 
said  just  now,  'apologetic'  to  Mr.  Longdon.  What's 
the  wrong  he  allows  he  has  done  him?" 

"Oh  he  has  'neglected'  him  —  if  that's  any  com 
fort  to  us  —  quite  as  much." 

"Has  n't  looked  him  up  and  that  sort  of  thing?" 
"Yes  —  and  he  mentioned  some  other  matter." 
Mitchy  wondered.    "'Mentioned'  it?" 
"In  which,"  said  Nanda,  "he  has  n't  pleased  him." 
Mitchy  after  an  instant  risked  it.   "  But  what  other 
matter?" 

"  Oh  he  says  that  when  I  speak  to  him  Mr.  Long 
don  will  know." 

Mitchy  gravely  took  this  in.  "And  shall  you  speak 
to  him?" 

518 


NANDA 

"  For  Mr.  Van  ? "  How,  she  seemed  to  ask,  could 
he  doubt  it  ?  "Why  the  very  first  thing." 

"And  then  will  Mr.  Longdon  tell  you  ?" 

"What  Mr.  Van  means?"  Nanda  thought.  "Well 
—  I  hope  not." 

Mitchy  followed  it  up.   "You  'hope'  —  ?" 

"Why  if  it's  anything  that  could  possibly  make 
any  one  like  him  any  less.  I  mean  I  shan't  in  that  case 
in  the  least  want  to  hear  it." 

Mitchy  looked  as  if  he  could  understand  that  and 
yet  could  also  imagine  something  of  a  conflict.  "  But 
if  Mr.  Longdon  insists  —  ? " 

"  On  making  me  know  ?  I  shan't  let  him  insist. 
Would  jyowr"'  she  put  to  him. 

"Oh  I'm  not  in  question!" 

"Yes,  you  are!"  she  quite  rang  out. 

"Ah  — !  "  Mitchy  laughed.  After  which  he  added: 
"Well  then,  I  might  overbear  you." 

"No,  you  mightn't,"  she  as  positively  declared 
again,  "  and  you  would  n't  at  any  rate  desire  to." 

This  he  finally  showed  he  could  take  from  her  — 
showed  it  in  the  silence  in  which  for  a  minute  their 
eyes  met;  then  showed  it  perhaps  even  more  in  his 
deep  exclamation:  "You're  complete!" 

For  such  a  proposition  as  well  she  had  the  same 
detached  sense.  "I  don't  think  I  am  in  anything  but 
the  wish  to  keep  you  so." 

"Well  —  keep  me,  keep  me!  It  strikes  me  that 
I  'm  not  at  all  now  on  a  footing,  you  know,  of  keeping 
myself.  I  quite  give  you  notice  in  fact,"  Mitchy  went 
on,  "that  I'm  going  to  come  to  you  henceforth  for 
everything.  But  you're  too  wonderful,"  he  wound 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

up  as  she  at  first  said  nothing  to  this.  "I  don't  even 
frighten  you." 

"  Yes  —  fortunately  for  you." 

"Ah  but  I  distinctly  warn  you  that  I  mean  to  do 
my  very  best  for  it! " 

Nanda  viewed  it  all  with  as  near  an  approach  to 
gaiety  as  she  often  achieved.  "  Well,  if  you  should 
ever  succeed  it  would  be  a  dark  day  for  you." 

"You  bristle  with  your  own  guns,"  he  pursued, 
"but  the  ingenuity  of  a  lifetime  shall  be  devoted  to 
my  taking  you  on  some  quarter  on  which  you  're  not 
prepared." 

"And  what  quarter,  pray,  will  that  be?" 

"Ah  I  'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  begin  by  giving  you 
a  tip !  "  Mitchy  on  this  turned  off  with  an  ambigu 
ous  but  unmistakeably  natural  sigh;  he  looked  at 
photographs,  he  took  up  a  book  or  two  as  Vander- 
bank  had  done,  and  for  a  couple  of  minutes  there 
was  silence  between  them.  "What  does  stretch 
before  me,"  he  resumed  after  an  interval  during 
which  clearly,  in  spite  of  his  movements,  he  had 
looked  at  nothing  —  "what  does  stretch  before  me 
is  the  happy  prospect  of  my  feeling  that  I  've  found 
in  you  a  friend  with  whom,  so  utterly  and  unreserv 
edly,  I  can  always  go  to  the  bottom  of  things.  This 
luxury,  you  see  now,  of  our  freedom  to  look  facts 
in  the  face  is  one  of  which,  I  promise  you,  I  mean 
fully  to  avail  myself."  He  stopped  before  her  again, 
and  again  she  was  silent.  "It's  so  awfully  jolly, 
is  n't  it  ?  that  there 's  not  at  last  a  single  thing  that 
we  can't  take  our  ease  about.  I  mean  that  we  can't 
intelligibly  name  and  comfortably  tackle.  We've 

520 


NANDA 

worked  through  the  long  tunnel  of  artificial  reserves 
and  superstitious  mysteries,  and  I  at  least  shall  have 
only  to  feel  that  in  showing  every  confidence  and 
dotting  every  '  i '  I  follow  the  example  you  so  admir 
ably  set.  You  go  down  to  the  roots  ?  Good.  It's  all 
I  ask!" 

He  had  dropped  into  a  chair  as  he  talked,  and  so 
long  as  she  remained  in  her  own  they  were  confronted ; 
but  she  presently  got  up  and,  the  next  moment,  while 
he  kept  his  place,  was  busy  restoring  order  to  the 
objects  both  her  visitors  had  disarranged.  "  If  you 
were  n't  delightful  you  'd  be  dreadful ! " 

"There  we  are!  I  could  easily,  in  other  words, 
frighten  you  if  I  would." 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  remark,  only,  after  a  few 
more  scattered  touches,  producing  an  observation  of 
her  own.  "He's  going,  all  the  same,  Mr.  Van,  to  be 
charming  to  mother.  We've  settled  that." 

"  Ah  then  he  can  make  time  —  ? " 

She  judged  it.  "For  as  much  as  that,  yes.  For  as 
much,  I  mean,  as  may  sufficiently  show  her  that  he 
has  n't  given  her  up.  So  don't  you  recognise  how 
much  more  time  you  can  make?" 

"Ah — see  precisely  —  there  we  are  again!"  Mitchy 
promptly  ejaculated. 

Yet  he  had  gone,  it  seemed,  further  than  she  fol 
lowed.  "  But  where  ? " 

"Why,  as  I  say,  at  the  roots  and  in  the  depths  of 
things." 

"Oh!  "  She  dropped  to  an  indifference  that  was  but 
part  of  her  general  patience  for  all  his  irony. 

"  It 's  needless  to  go  into  the  question  of  not  giving 
521 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

your  mother  up.  One  simply  does  n't  give  her  up. 
One  can't.  There  she  is." 

"That's  exactly  what  he  says.    There  she  is." 

"Ah  but  I  don't  want  to  say  nothing  but  what  'he' 
says  !"  Mitchy  laughed.  "He  can't  at  all  events  have 
mentioned  to  you  any  such  link  as  the  one  that  in 
my  case  is  now  almost  the  most  palpable.  /  Ve  got 
a  wife,  you  know." 

"  Oh  Mitchy ! "  the  girl  protestingly  though  vaguely 
murmured. 

"And  my  wife  —  did  you  know  it  ?"  Mitchy  went 
on,  "  is  positively  getting  thick  with  your  mother.  Of 
course  it  is  n't  new  to  you  that  she 's  wonderful  for 
wives.  Now  that  our  marriage  is  an  accomplished 
fact  she  takes  the  greatest  interest  in  it  —  or  bids  fair 
to  if  her  attention  can  only  be  thoroughly  secured 
—  and  more  particularly  in  what  I  believe  is  generally 
called  our  peculiar  situation:  for  it  appears,  you 
know,  that  we're  to  the  most  conspicuous  degree 
possible  in  a  peculiar  situation.  Aggie's  therefore 
already,  and  is  likely  to  be  still  more,  in  what's  uni 
versally  recognised  as  your  mother's  regular  line. 
Your  mother. will  attract  her,  study  her,  finally  'un 
derstand'  her.  In  fact  she'll  'help'  her  as  she  has 
'helped'  so  many  before  and  will  'help'  so  many 
still  to  come.  With  Aggie  thus  as  a  satellite  and  a 
frequenter  —  in  a  degree  in  which  she  never  yet  has 
been,"  he  continued,  "what  will  the  whole  thing  be 
but  a  practical  multiplication  of  our  points  of  con 
tact  ?  You  may  remind  me  of  Mrs.  Brook's  conten 
tion  that  if  she  did  in  her  time  keep  something  of  a 
saloon  the  saloon  is  now,  in  consequence  of  events, 

522 


NANDA 

but  a  collection  of  fortuitous  atoms;  but  that,  my 
dear  Nanda,  will  become  none  the  less,  to  your  clearer 
sense,  but  a  pious  echo  of  her  momentary  modesty 
or  —  call  it  at  the  worst  —  her  momentary  despair. 
The  generations  will  come  and  go,  and  the  personnel, 
as  the  newspapers  say,  of  the  saloon  will  shift  and 
change,  but  the  institution  itself,  as  resting  on  a  deep 
human  need,  has  a  long  course  yet  to  run  and  a  good 
work  yet  to  do.  We  shan't  last,  but  your  mother  will, 
and  as  Aggie  is  happily  very  young  she's  therefore 
provided  for,  in  the  time  to  come,  on  a  scale  suf 
ficiently  considerable  to  leave  us  just  now  at  peace. 
Meanwhile,  as  you're  almost  as  good  for  husbands 
as  Mrs.  Brook  is  for  wives,  why  are  n't  we,  as  a  couple, 
we  Mitchys,  quite  ideally  arranged  for,  and  why 
may  n't  I  speak  to  you  of  my  future  as  sufficiently 
guaranteed  ?  The  only  appreciable  shadow  I  make 
out  comes,  for  me,  from  the  question  of  what  may 
to-day  be  between  you  and  Mr.  Longdon.  Do  I  un 
derstand,"  Mitchy  asked,  "that  he's  presently  to 
arrive  for  an  answer  to  something  he  has  put  to  you  ? " 

Nanda  looked  at  him  a  while  with  a  sort  of  sol 
emnity  of  tenderness,  and  her  voice,  when  she  at  last 
spoke,  trembled  with  a  feeling  that  clearly  had  grown 
in  her  as  she  listened  to  the  string  of  whimsicalities, 
bitter  and  sweet,  that  he  had  just  unrolled.  "You're 
wild,"  she  said  simply  —  "you're  wild." 

He  wonderfully  glared.  "Am  I  then  already 
frightening  you?"  He  shook  his  head  rather  sadly. 
"  I  'm  not  in  the  least  trying  yet.  There 's  something," 
he  added  after  an  instant,  "that  I  do  want  too 
awfully  to  ask  you." 

523 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Well  then  — ! "  If  she  had  not  eagerness  she  had 
at  least  charity. 

"Oh  but  you  see  I  reflect  that  though  you  show  all 
the  courage  to  go  to  the  roots  and  depths  with  me, 
I  'm  not  —  I  never  have  been  —  fully  conscious  of  the 
nerve  for  doing  as  much  with  you.  It's  a  question," 
Mitchy  explained,  "of  how  much  —  of  a  particular 
matter  —  you  know." 

She  continued  ever  so  kindly  to  face  him.  "Has  n't 
it  come  out  all  round  now  that  I  know  everything  ?" 

Her  reply,  in  this  form,  took  a  minute  or  two  to 
operate,  but  when  it  began  to  do  so  it  fairly  diffused 
a  light.  Mitchy's  face  turned  of  a  colour  that  might 
have  been  produced  by  her  holding  close  to  it  some 
lantern  wonderfully  glazed.  "  You  know,  you  know ! " 
he  then  rang  out. 

"Of  course  I  know." 

"You  know,  you  know!"  Mitchy  repeated. 

"Everything,"  she  imperturbably  went  on,  "but 
what  you're  talking  about." 

He  was  silent  a  little,  his  eyes  on  her.  "May  I  kiss 
your  hand  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered:  "that's  what  I  call  wild." 

He  had  risen  with  his  question  and  after  her  reply 
he  remained  a  moment  on  the  spot.  "  See  —  I  've 
frightened  you.  It  proves  as  easy  as  that.  But  I  only 
wanted  to  show  you  and  to  be  sure  for  myself.  Now 
that  I've  the  mental  certitude  I  shall  never  wish 
otherwise  to  use  it."  He  turned  away  to  begin  again 
one  of  his  absorbed  revolutions.  "  Mr.  Longdon  has 
asked  you  this  time  for  a  grand  public  adhesion,  and 
what  he  turns  up  for  now  is  to  receive  your  ultima- 

524 


NANDA 

turn  ?  A  final  irrevocable  flight  with  him  is  the  line 
he  advises,  so  that  he  '11  be  ready  for  it  on  the  spot 
with  the  post-chaise  and  the  pistols?" 

The  image  appeared  really  to  have  for  Nanda  a 
certain  vividness,  and  she  looked  at  it  a  space  with 
out  a  hint  of  a  smile.  "We  shan't  need  any  pistols, 
whatever  may  be  decided  about  the  post-chaise; 
and  any  flight  we  may  undertake  together  will  need 
no  cover  of  secrecy  or  night.  Mother,  as  I  've  told 
you—" 

"Won't  fling  herself  across  your  reckless  path?  I  re 
member,"  said  Mitchy —  "you  alluded  to  her  magni 
ficent  resignation.  But  father  ? "  he  oddly  demanded. 

Nanda  thought  for  this  a  moment  longer.  "Well, 
Mr.  Longdon  has  —  off  in  the  country  —  a  good  deal 
of  shooting." 

"So  that  Edward  can  sometimes  come  down  with 
his  old  gun  ?  Good  then  too  —  if  it  is  n't,  as  he  takes 
you  by  the  way,  to  shoot  you.  You've  got  it  all  ship 
shape  and  arranged,  in  other  words,  and  have  only, 
if  the  fancy  does  move  you,  to  clear  out.  You  clear 
out  —  you  make  all  sorts  of  room.  It  is  interesting," 
Mitchy  exclaimed,  "arriving  thus  with  you  at  the 
depths !  I  look  all  round  and  see  every  one  squared 
and  every  one  but  one  or  two  suited.  Why  then 
reflexion  and  delay?" 

"You  don't,  dear  Mr.  Mitchy,"  Nanda  took  her 
time  to  return,  "know  nearly  as  much  as  you  think." 

"  But  is  n't  my  question  absolutely  a  confession  of 
ignorance  and  a  renunciation  of  thought  ?  I  put  my 
self  from  this  moment  forth  with  you,"  Mitchy  de 
clared,  "  on  the  footing  of  knowing  nothing  whatever 

525 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

and  of  receiving  literally  from  your  hands  all  in 
formation  and  all  life.  Let  my  continued  attitude  of 
dependence,  my  dear  Nanda,  show  it.  Any  hesitation 
you  may  yet  feel,  you  imply,  proceeds  from  a  sense 
of  duties  in  London  not  to  be  lightly  renounced  ? 
Oh,"  he  thoughtfully  said,  "I  do  at  least  know  you 
have  them." 

She  watched  him  with  the  same  mildness  while  he 
vaguely  circled  about.  "You're  wild,  you're  wild," 
she  insisted.  "  But  it  does  n't  in  the  least  matter. 
I  shan't  abandon  you." 

He  stopped  short.  "Ah  that's  what  I  wanted  from 
you  in  so  many  clear-cut  golden  words  —  though 
I  won't  in  the  least  of  course  pretend  that  I  've  felt 
I  literally  need  it.  I  don't  literally  need  the  big  tur 
quoise  in  my  neck-tie;  which  incidentally  means,  by 
the  way,  that  if  you  should  admire  it  you  're  quite 
welcome  to  it.  Such  words  —  that 's  my  point  —  are 
like  such  jewels:  the  pride,  you  see,  of  one's  heart. 
They're  mere  vanity,  but  they  help  along.  You've 
got  of  course  always  poor  Tishy,"  he  continued. 

"Will  you  leave  it  all  to  me?"  Nanda  said  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  him. 

"And  then  you've  got  poor  Carrie,"  he  went  on, 
"though  her  of  course  you  rather  divide  with  your 
mother." 

"Will  you  leave  it  all  to  me?"  the  girl  repeated. 

"To  say  nothing  of  poor  Cashmore,"  he  pursued, 
"whom  you  take  0//,  I  believe,  yourself?" 

"Will  you  leave  it  all  to  me?"  she  once  more  re 
peated. 

This  time  he  pulled  up,  suddenly  and  expressively 
526 


NANDA 

wondering.  "Are  you  going  to  do  anything  about  it 
at  present  ?  —  I  mean  with  our  friend  ?" 

She  appeared  to  have  a  scruple  of  saying,  but 
at  last  she  produced  it.  "Yes  —  he  doesn't  mind 
now." 

Mitchy  again  laughed  out.  "You  are,  as  a  fam 
ily — !"  But  he  had  already  checked  himself.  "Mr. 
Longdon  will  at  any  rate,  you  imply,  be  somehow 
interested  — " 

"  In  my  interests  ?  Of  course  —  since  he  has 
gone  so  far.  You  expressed  surprise  at  my  want 
ing  to  wait  and  think;  but  how  can  I  not  wait  and 
not  think  when  so  much  depends  on  the  question 
—  now  so  definite  —  of  how  much  further  he  will 
go?" 

"I  see,"  said  Mitchy,  profoundly  impressed.  "And 
how  much  does  that  depend  on?" 

She  had  to  reflect.  "On  how  much  further  I,  for 
my  part,  must" 

Mitchy's  grasp  was  already  complete.  "And  he's 
coming  then  to  learn  from  you  how  far  this  is  ?" 

"Yes  —  very  much." 

Mitchy  looked  about  for  his  hat.  "  So  that  of  course 
I  see  my  time 's  about  up,  as  you  '11  want  to  be  quite 
alone  together." 

Nanda  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Oh  you've  a  margin 
yet." 

"But  you  don't  want  an  interval  for  your  think- 
ing-?" 

"  Now  that  I  've  seen  you  ? "  Nanda  was  already 
very  obviously  thoughtful. 

"  I  mean  if  you  've  an  important  decision  to  take." 

527 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Well,"  she  returned,  "seeing  you  has  helped  me." 

"Ah  but  at  the  same  time  worried  you.  There 
fore — "  And  he  picked  up  his  umbrella. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  its  curious  handle.  "  If  you  cling 
to  your  idea  that  I'm  frightened  you'll  be  disap 
pointed.  It  will  never  be  given  you  to  reassure  me." 

"You  mean  by  that  that  I'm  primarily  so  solid — !" 

"Yes,  that  till  I  see  you  yourself  afraid  — !" 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I  won't  admit  that  anything  is  n't  exactly 
what  I  was  prepared  for." 

Mitchy  looked  with  interest  into  his  hat.  "Then 
what  is  it  I'm  to  'leave'  to  you  ?"  After  which,  as 
she  turned  away  from  him  with  a  suppressed  sound 
and  said,  while  he  watched  her,  nothing  else,  "It's 
no  doubt  natural  for  you  to  talk,"  he  went  on,  "but 
I  do  make  you  nervous.  Good-bye  —  good-bye." 

She  had  stayed  him,  by  a  fresh  movement,  how 
ever,  as  he  reached  the  door.  "Aggie 's  only  trying  to 
find  out  — !" 

"Yes — what?"  he  asked,  waiting. 

"Why  what  sort  of  a  person  she  is.  How  can  she 
ever  have  known  ?  It  was  carefully,  elaborately  hid 
den  from  her  —  kept  so  obscure  that  she  could  make 
out  nothing.  She  is  n't  now  like  me" 

He  wonderingly  attended.    "Like  you?" 

"Why  I  get  the  benefit  of  the  fact  that  there  was 
never  a  time  when  I  did  n't  know  something  or  other, 
and  that  I  became  more  and  more  aware,  as  I  grew 
older,  of  a  hundred  little  chinks  of  daylight." 

Mitchy  stared.  "You  're  stupendous,  my  dear! "  he 
murmured. 

528 


NANDA 

Ah  but  she  kept  it  up.  "/  had  my  idea  about 
Aggie." 

"  Oh  don't  I  know  you  had  ?  And  how  you  were 
positive  about  the  sort  of  person  — !  " 

"That  she  did  n't  even  suspect  herself,"  Nanda 
broke  in,  "  to  be  ?  I  'm  equally  positive  now.  It 's 
quite  what  I  believed,  only  there 's  ever  so  much  more 
of  it.  More  has  come  —  and  more  will  yet.  You  see, 
when  there  has  been  nothing  before,  it  all  has  to  come 
with  a  rush.  So  that  if  even  I  'm  surprised  of  course 
she  is." 

"And  of  course  7  am!"  Mitchy's  interest,  though 
even  now  not  wholly  unqualified  with  amusement,  had 
visibly  deepened.  "You  admit  then,"  he  continued, 
"that  you're  surprised  ?" 

Nanda  just  hesitated.  "At  the  mere  scale  of  it. 
I  think  it's  splendid.  The  only  person  whose  aston 
ishment  I  don't  quite  understand,"  she  added,  "is 
Cousin  Jane." 

"Oh  Cousin  Jane's  astonishment  serves  her  right!  " 

"If  she  held  so,"  Nanda  pursued,  "that  marriage 
should  do  everything  — !  " 

"She  should  n't  be  in  such  a  funk  at  finding  what 
it  is  doing?  Oh  no,  she's  the  last  one!"  Mitchy 
declared.  "I  vow  I  enjoy  her  scare." 

"But  it's  very  bad,  you  know,"  said  Nanda. 

"Oh  too  awful!" 

"Well,  of  course,"  the  girl  appeared  assentingly  to 
muse,  "she  could  n't  after  all  have  dreamed  — ! "  But 
she  took  herself  up.  "  The  great  thing  is  to  be  helpful." 

"And  in  what  way  —  ?"  Mitchy  asked  with  his 
wonderful  air  of  inviting  competitive  suggestions. 

529 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Toward  Aggie's  finding  herself.  Do  you  think," 
she  immediately  continued,  "that  Lord  Petherton 
really  is  ? " 

Mitchy  frankly  considered.  "Helpful?  Oh  he 
does  his  best,  I  gather.  Yes,"  he  presently  added  — 
"  Petherton 's  all  right." 

"It's  you  yourself,  naturally,"  his  companion 
threw  off,  "who  can  help  most." 

"Certainly,  and  I'm  doing  my  best  too.  So  that 
with  such  good  assistance"  —  he  seemed  at  last  to 
have  taken  it  all  from  her  —  "what  is  it,  I  again  ask, 
that,  as  you  request,  I'm  to  *  leave'  to  you  ?" 

Nanda  required,  while  he  still  waited,  some  time 
to  reply.  "To  keep  my  promise." 

"Your  promise  ?" 

"Not  to  abandon  you." 

"Ah,"  cried  Mitchy,  "that's  better!" 

"Then  good-bye,"  she  said. 

"Good-bye."  But  he  came  a  few  steps  forward. 
"I  mayn't  kiss  your  hand  ?" 

"Never." 

"Never?" 

"Never." 

"Oh! "  he  oddly  sounded  as  he  quickly  went  out. 


IV 


THE  interval  he  had  represented  as  likely  to  be  useful 
to  her  was  in  fact,  however,  not  a  little  abbreviated 
by  a  punctuality  of  arrival  on  Mr.  Longdon's  part 
so  extreme  as  to  lead  the  first  thing  to  a  word' almost 
of  apology.  "  You  can't  say,"  her  new  visitor  imme 
diately  began,  "  that  I  have  n't  left  you  alone,  these 
many  days,  as  much  as  I  promised  on  coming  up  to 
you  that  afternoon  when  after  my  return  to  town  I 
found  Mr.  Mitchett  instead  of  your  mother  awaiting 
me  in  the  drawing-room." 

"Yes,"  said  Nanda,  "you've  really  done  quite  as 
I  asked  you." 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "I  felt  half  an  hour  ago 
that,  near  as  I  was  to  relief,  I  could  keep  it  up  no 
longer;  so  that  though  I  knew  it  would  bring  me 
much  too  soon  I  started  at  six  sharp  for  our  trysting- 
place." 

"And  I've  no  tea,  after  all,  to  reward  you!"  It 
was  but  now  clearly  that  she  noticed  it.  "They  must 
have  removed  the  things  without  my  heeding." 

Her  old  friend  looked  at  her  with  some  intensity. 
"Were  you  in  the  room?" 

"Yes  —  but  I  did  n't  see  the  man  come  in." 

"What  then  were  you  doing?" 

Nanda  thought;  her  smile  was  as  usual  the  faintest 
discernible  outward  sign.  "Thinking  of  you" 

"  So  tremendously  hard  ? " 
531 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Well,  of  other  things  too  and  of  other  persons. 
Of  everything  really  that  in  our  last  talk  I  told  you 
I  felt  I  must  have  out  with  myself  before  meeting  you 
for  what  I  suppose  you've  now  in  mind." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  kept  his  eyes  on  her,  but  at  this 
he  turned  away;  not,  however,  for  an  alternative, 
embracing  her  material  situation  with  the  embar 
rassed  optimism  of  Vanderbank  or  the  mitigated 
gloom  of  Mitchy.  "Ah  "  —  he  took  her  up  with  some 
dryness  —  "you've  been  having  things  out  with 
yourself?"  But  he  went  on  before  she  answered: 
"I  don't  want  any  tea,  thank  you.  I  found  myself, 
after  five,  in  such  a  fidget  that  I  went  three  times 
in  the  course  of  the  hour  to  my  club,  where  I've 
the  impression  I  each  time  had  it.  I  dare  say  it 
was  n't  there,  though,  I  did  have  it,"  he  after  an 
instant  pursued,  "for  I've  somehow  a  confused 
image  of  a  shop  in  Oxford  Street  —  or  was  it  rather 
in  Regent  ?  —  into  which  I  gloomily  wandered  to 
beguile  the  moments  with  a  mixture  that  if  I  strike 
you  as  upset  I  beg  you  to  set  it  all  down  to.  Do 
you  know  in  fact  what  I've  been  doing  for  the 
last  ten  minutes  ?  Roaming  hither  and  thither  in 
your  beautiful  Crescent  till  I  could  venture  to  come 
in." 

"Then  did  you  see  Mitchy  go  out?  But  no,  you 
wouldn't"  —  Nanda  corrected  herself.  "He  has 
been  gone  longer  than  that." 

Her  visitor  had  dropped  on  a  sofa  where,  propped 
by  the  back,  he  sat  rather  upright,  his  glasses  on  his 
nose,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  elbows  much 
turned  out.  "  Mitchy  left  you  more  than  ten  minutes 

532 


NANDA 

ago,  and  yet  your  state  on  his  departure  remains  such 
that  there  could  be  a  bustle  of  servants  in  the  room 
without  your  being  aware  ?  Kindly  give  me  a  lead 
then  as  to  what  it  is  he  has  done  to  you." 

She  hovered  before  him  with  her  obscure  smile. 
"You  see  it  for  yourself." 

He  shook  his  head  with  decision.  "  I  don't  see  any 
thing  for  myself,  and  I  beg  you  to  understand  that 
it's  not  what  I've  come  here  to-day  to  do.  Anything 
I  may  yet  see  which  I  don't  already  see  will  be  only, 
I  warn  you,  so  far  as  you  shall  make  it  very  clear. 
There  —  you  've  work  cut  out.  And  is  it  with  Mr. 
Mitchett,  may  I  ask,  that  you've  been,  as  you  men 
tion,  cutting  it?" 

Nanda  looked  about  her  as  if  weighing  many 
things;  after  which  her  eyes  came  back  to  him.  "Do 
you  mind  if  I  don't  sit  down  ?" 

"  I  don't  mind  if  you  stand  on  your  head  —  at  the 
pass  we've  come  to." 

"I  shall  not  try  your  patience,"  the  girl  good- 
humouredly  replied,  "  so  far  as  that.  I  only  want  you 
not  to  be  worried  if  I  walk  about  a  little." 

Mr.  Longdon,  without  a  movement,  kept  his  post 
ure.  "  Oh  I  can't  oblige  you  there.  I  shall  be  worried. 
I  've  come  on  purpose  to  be  worried,  and  the  more  I 
surrender  myself  to  the  rack  the  more,  I  seem  to  feel, 
we  shall  have  threshed  our  business  out.  So  you  may 
dance,  you  may  stamp,  if  you  like,  on  the  absolutely 
passive  thing  you've  made  of  me." 

"Well,  what  I  have  had  from  Mitchy,"  she  cheer 
fully  responded,  "is  practically  a  lesson  in  dancing: 
by  which  I  perhaps  mean  rather  a  lesson  in  sitting, 

533 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

myself,  as  I  want  you  to  do  while  7  talk,  as  still  as 
a  mouse.  They  take,"  she  declared,  "while  they  talk, 
an  amount  of  exercise!'* 

"They?"  Mr.  Longdon  wondered.  "Was  his  wife 
with  him  ? " 

"  Dear  no  —  he  and  Mr.  Van." 

"Was  Mr.  Van  with  him?" 

"Oh  no  —  before,  alone.    All  over  the  place." 

Mr.  Longdon  had  a  pause  so  rich  in  appeal  that 
when  he  at  last  spoke  his  question  was  itself  like  an 
answer.  "Mr.  Van  has  been  to  see  you  ?" 

"Yes.    I  wrote  and  asked  him." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Longdon. 

"  But  don't  get  up."  She  raised  her  hand.  "  Don't." 

"Why  should  I  ?"    He  had  never  budged. 

"He  was  most  kind;  stayed  half  an  hour  and, 
when  I  told  him  you  were  coming,  left  a  good  mes 
sage  for  you." 

Mr.  Longdon  appeared  to  wait  for  this  tribute, 
which  was  not  immediately  produced.  "What  do 
you  call  a  'good'  message?" 

"I'm  to  make  it  all  right  with  you." 

"To  make  what?" 

"Why,  that  he  has  not,  for  so  long,  been  to  see 
you  or  written  to  you.  That  he  has  seemed  to  neglect 
you." 

Nanda's  visitor  looked  so  far  about  as  to  take  the 
neighbourhood  in  general  into  the  confidence  of  his 
surprise.  "To  neglect  me?" 

"Well,  others  too,  I  believe  —  with  whom  we're 
not  concerned.  He  has  been  so  taken  up.  But  you 
above  all." 

534 


NANDA 

Mr.  Longdon  showed  on  this  a  coldness  that  some 
how  spoke  for  itself  as  the  greatest  with  which  he 
had  ever  in  his  life  met  an  act  of  reparation  and  that 
was  infinitely  confirmed  by  his  sustained  immobility. 
"But  of  what  have  I  complained  ?" 

"Oh  I  don't  think  he  fancies  you've  complained." 

"  And  how  could  he  have  come  to  see  me,"  he  con 
tinued,  "when  for  so  many  months  past  I've  been  so 
little  in  town  ? " 

He  was  not  more  ready  with  objections,  how 
ever,  than  his  companion  had  by  this  time  become 
with  answers.  "He  must  have  been  thinking  of 
the  time  of  your  present  stay.  He  evidently  has  you 
much  on  his  mind  —  he  spoke  of  not  having  seen 
you." 

"  He  has  quite  sufficiently  tried  —  he  has  left 
cards,"  Mr.  Longdon  returned.  "What  more  does 
he  want?" 

Nanda  looked  at  him  with  her  long  grave  straight- 
ness,  which  had  often  a  play  of  light  beyond  any 
smile.  "Oh,  you  know,  he  does  want  more." 

"Then  it  was  open  to  him  — " 

"  So  he  so  strongly  feels "  —  she  quickly  took  him 
up  —  "  that  you  must  have  felt.  And  therefore  it  is 
I  speak  for  him." 

"Don't!"  said  Mr.  Longdon. 

"But  I  promised  him  I  would." 

"  Don't ! "  her  friend  repeated  as  in  stifled  pain. 

She  had  kept  for  the  time  all  her  fine  clearness 
turned  to  him;  but  she  might  on  this  have  been  taken 
as  giving  him  up  with  a  movement  of  obedience  and 
a  strange  soft  sigh.  The  smothered  sound  might  even 

535 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

have  represented  to  a  listener  at  all  initiated  a  con 
senting  retreat  before  an  effort  greater  than  her  reck 
oning  —  a  retreat  that  was  in  so  far  the  snap  of  a 
sharp  tension.  The  next  minute,  none  the  less,  she 
evidently  found  a  fresh  provocation  in  the  sight  of 
the  pale  and  positively  excessive  rigour  she  had  im 
posed,  so  that,  though  her  friend  was  only  accom 
modating  himself  to  her  wish  she  had  a  sudden  im 
pulse  of  criticism.  "You're  proud  about  it  —  too 
proud!" 

"Well,  what  if  I  am  ?"  He  looked  at  her  with  a 
complexity  of  communication  that  no  words  could 
have  meddled  with.  "  Pride 's  all  right  when  it  helps 
one  to  bear  things." 

"Ah,"  said  Nanda,  "but  that's  only  when  one 
wants  to  take  the  least  from  them.  When  one  wants 
to  take  the  most — !" 

"Well  ?" —  he  spoke,  as  she  faltered,  with  a  certain 
small  hardness  of  interest. 

She  faltered,  however,  indeed.  "Oh  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  it."  She  fairly  coloured  with  the  attempt. 
"One  must  let  the  sense  of  all  that  I  speak  of  —  well, 
all  come.  One  must  rather  like  it.  I  don't  know  — 
but  I  suppose  one  must  rather  grovel." 

Mr.  Longdon,  though  with  visible  reluctance, 
turned  it  over.  "That's  very  fine  —  but  you're  a 
woman." 

"Yes  —  that  must  make  a  difference.  But  being 
a  woman,  in  such  a  case,  has  then,"  Nanda  went 
on,  "its  advantages." 

On  this  point  perhaps  her  friend  might  presently 
have  been  taken  as  relaxing.  "It  strikes  me  that 

536 


NANDA 

even  at  that  the  advantages  are  mainly  for  others. 
I  'm  glad,  God  knows,  that  you  're  not  also  a  young 
man." 

"Then  we're  suited  all  round." 

She  had  spoken  with  a  promptitude  that  appeared 
again  to  act  on  him  slightly  as  an  irritant,  for  he  met 
it  —  with  more  delay  —  by  a  long  and  derisive  mur 
mur.  "Oh  my  pride  — !  "  But  this  she  in  no  manner 
took  up ;  so  that  he  was  left  for  a  little  to  his  thoughts. 
"That's  what  you  were  plotting  when  you  told  me 
the  other  day  that  you  wanted  time  ? " 

"Ah  I  was  n't  plotting  —  though  I  was,  I  confess, 
trying  to  work  things  out.  That  particular  idea  of 
simply  asking  Mr.  Van  by  letter  to  present  himself  — 
that  particular  flight  of  fancy  had  n't  in  fact  then  at 
all  occurred  to  me." 

"It  never  occurred,  I'm  bound  to  say,  to  me" 
said  Mr.  Longdon.  "I've  never  thought  of  writing 
to  him." 

"Very  good.  But  you  haven't  the  reasons.  I 
wanted  to  attack  him." 

"Not  about  me,  I  hope  to  God!"  Mr.  Longdon, 
distinctly  a  little  paler,  rejoined. 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  I  think  I  had  an  instinct  of  how 
you  would  have  taken  that.  It  was  about  mother." 

"Oh!"  said  her  visitor. 

"  He  has  been  worse  to  her  than  to  you,"  she  con 
tinued.  "But  he'll  make  it  all  right." 

Mr.  Longdon's  attention  retained  its  grimness.  "  If 
he  has  such  a  remedy  for  the  more  then,  what  has  he 
for  the  less  ?" 

Nanda,  however,  was  but  for  an  instant  checked. 
537 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh  it's  I  who  make  it  up  to  you.  To  mother,  you 
see,  there's  no  one  otherwise  to  make  it  up." 

This  at  first  unmistakeably  sounded  to  him  too 
complicated  for  acceptance.  But  his  face  changed  as 
light  dawned.  "That  puts  it  then  that  you  will 
come  ?" 

"I'll  come  if  you'll  take  me  as  I  am  —  which  is 
what  I  must  previously  explain  to  you:  I  mean  more 
than  I've  ever  done  before.  But  what  he  means  by 
what  you  call  his  remedy  is  my  making  you  feel 
better  about  himself." 

The  old  man  gazed  at  her.  'Your'  doing  it  is 
too  beautiful!  And  he  could  really  come  to  you  for 
the  purpose  of  asking  you  ?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  girl  briskly,  "he  came  simply 
for  the  purpose  of  doing  what  he  had  to  do.  After  my 
letter  how  could  he  not  come  ?  Then  he  met  most 
kindly  what  I  said  to  him  for  mother  and  what  he 
quite  understood  to  be  all  my  business  with  him;  so 
that  his  appeal  to  me  to  plead  with  you  for  —  well, 
for  his  credit  —  was  only  thrown  in  because  he  had 
so  good  a  chance." 

This  speech  brought  Mr.  Longdon  abruptly  to  his 
feet,  but  before  she  could  warn  him  again  of  the 
patience  she  continued  to  need  he  had  already,  as 
if  what  she  evoked  for  him  left  him  too  stupefied, 
dropped  back  into  submission.  "The  man  stood 
there  for  you  to  render  him  a  service  ?  —  for  you  to 
help  him  and  praise  him?" 

"  Ah  but  it  was  n't  to  go  out  of  my  way,  don't  you 
see  ?  He  knew  you  were  presently  to  be  here."  Her 
anxiety  that  he  should  understand  gave  her  a  rare 

538 


NANDA 

strained  smile.  "I  mustn't  make  —  as  a  request 
from  him  —  too  much  of  it,  and  I  've  not  a  doubt 
that,  rather  than  that  you  should  think  any  ill  of  him 
for  wishing  me  to  say  a  word,  he  would  gladly  be  left 
with  whatever  bad  appearance  he  may  actually  hap 
pen  to  have."  She  pulled  up  on  these  words  as  with 
a  quick  sense  of  their  really,  by  their  mere  sound, 
putting  her  in  deeper;  and  could  only  give  her  friend 
one  of  the  looks  that  expressed :  "  If  I  could  trust  you 
not  to  assent  even  more  than  I  want,  I  should  say 
'You  know  what  I  mean!'3 '  She  allowed  him  at  all 
events  —  or  tried  to  allow  him  —  no  time  for  uttered 
irony  before  going  on :  "  He  was  everything  you  could 
have  wished;  quite  as  beautiful  about  you — " 

"As  about  you  ?"  —  Mr.  Longdon  took  her  up. 

She  demurred.  "As  about  mother."  With  which 
she  turned  away  as  if  it  handsomely  settled  the  ques 
tion. 

But  it  only  left  him,  as  she  went  to  the  window, 
sitting  there  sombre.  "  I  like,  you  know,"  he  brought 
out  as  his  eyes  followed  her,  "your  saying  you're  not 
proud!  Thank  God  you  are,  my  dear.  Yes  —  it's 
better  for  us." 

At  this,  after  a  moment,  in  her  place,  she  turned 
round  to  him.  "  I  'm  glad  I  'm  anything  —  whatever 
you  may  call  it  and  though  I  can't  call  it  the  same  — 
that's  good  for  you." 

He  said  nothing  more  for  a  little,  as  if  by  such 
a  speech  something  in  him  were  simplified  and  soft 
ened.  "  It  would  be  good  for  me  —  by  which  I  mean 
it  would  be  easier  for  me  —  if  you  did  n't  quite  so 
immensely  care  for  him." 

539 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"Oh!"  came  from  Nanda  with  an  accent  of  attenu 
ation  at  once  so  precipitate  and  so  vague  that  it  only 
made  her  attitude  at  first  rather  awkward.  "Oh!" 
she  immediately  repeated,  but  with  an  increase  of  the 
same  effect.  After  which,  conscious,  she  made,  as  if 
to  save  herself,  a  quick  addition.  "Dear  Mr.  Long- 
don,  is  n't  it  rather  yourself  most  —  ? " 

"It  would  be  easier  for  me,"  he  went  on,  heedless, 
"  if  you  did  n't,  my  poor  child,  so  wonderfully  love 
him." 

"Ah  but  I  don't  —  please  believe  me  when  I  as 
sure  you  I  dont!"  she  broke  out.  It  burst  from  her, 
flaring  up,  in  a  queer  quaver  that  ended  in  something 
queerer  still  —  in  her  abrupt  collapse,  on  the  spot,  into 
the  nearest  chair,  where  she  choked  with  a  torrent 
of  tears.  Her  buried  face  could  only  after  a  moment 
give  way  to  the  flood,  and  she  sobbed  in  a  passion 
as  sharp  and  brief  as  the  flurry  of  a  wild  thing 
for  an  instant  uncaged;  her  old  friend  meantime 
keeping  his  place  in  the  silence  broken  by  her  sound 
and  distantly  —  across  the  room  —  closing  his  eyes 
to  his  helplessness  and  her  shame.  Thus  they  sat 
together  while  their  trouble  both  conjoined  and  di 
vided  them.  She  recovered  herself,  however,  with  an 
effort  worthy  of  her  fall  and  was  on  her  feet  again  as 
she  stammeringly  spoke  and  angrily  brushed  at  her 
eyes.  "What  difference  in  the  world  does  it  make  — 
what  difference  ever  ? "  Then  clearly,  even  with  the 
words,  her  checked  tears  suffered  her  to  see  how  it 
made  the  difference  that  he  too  had  been  crying;  so 
that  "I  don't  know  why  you  mind!"  she  thereupon 
wailed  with  extravagance. 

540 


NANDA 

"You  don't  know  what  I  would  have  done  for  him. 
You  don't  know,  you  don't  know!"  he  repeated  — 
while  she  looked  as  if  she  naturally  could  n't  —  as 
with  a  renewal  of  his  dream  of  beneficence  and  of  the 
soreness  of  his  personal  wound. 

"Well,  but  he  does  you  justice  —  he  knows.  So  it 
shows,  so  it  shows — !" 

But  in  this  direction  too,  unable  to  say  what  it 
showed,  she  had  again  broken  down  and  again  could 
only  hold  herself  and  let  her  companion  sit  there. 
"Ah  Nanda,  Nanda! "  he  deeply  murmured  ;  and  the 
depth  of  the  pity  was,  vainly  and  blindly,  as  the  depth 
of  a  reproach. 

"It's  I  —  it's  I,  therefore,"  she  said  as  if  she  must 
then  so  look  at  it  with  him;  "it's  I  who  am  the 
horrible  impossible  and  who  have  covered  everything 
else  with  my  own  impossibility.  For  some  different 
person  you  could  have  done  what  you  speak  of,  and 
for  some  different  person  you  can  do  it  still." 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  barren  sorrow.  "A  per 
son  different  from  him?" 

"A  person  different  from  me" 

"And  what  interest  have  I  in  any  such  per 
son?" 

"  But  your  interest  in  me  —  you  see  well  enough 
where  that  lands  us." 

Mr.  Longdon  now  got  to  his  feet  and  somewhat 
stiffly  remained;  after  which,  for  all  answer,  "You 
say  you  will  come  then?"  he  asked.  Then  as  — 
seemingly  with  her  last  thought  —  she  kept  silent: 
"You  understand  clearly,  I  take  it,  that  this  time 
it 's  never  again  to  leave  me  —  or  to  be  left." 

541 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"I  understand,"  she  presently  replied.  "Never 
again.  That,"  she  continued,  "is  why  I  asked  you 
for  these  days." 

"Well  then,  since  you've  taken  them  . — " 

"Ah  but  have  you?"  said  Nanda.  They  were  close 
to  each  other  now,  and  with  a  tenderness  of  warning 
that  was  helped  by  their  almost  equal  stature  she  laid 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "What  I  did  more  than 
anything  else  write  to  him  for,"  she  had  now  regained 
her  clearness  enough  to  explain,  "was  that  —  with 
whatever  idea  you  had  —  you  should  see  for  yourself 
how  he  could  come  and  go." 

"And  what  good  was  that  to  do  me?  Hadn't  I 
seen  for  myself?" 

"Well — you've  seen  once  more.  Here  he  was. 
I  didn't  care  what  he  thought.  Here  I  brought 
him.  And  his  reasons  remain." 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  her  companion's  face,  but  his 
own  now  and  afterwards  seemed  to  wander  far. 
"What  do  I  care  for  his  reasons  so  long  as  they're 
not  mine  ?" 

She  thought  an  instant,  still  holding  him  gently 
and  as  if  for  successful  argument.  "  But  perhaps  you 
don't  altogether  understand  them." 

"And  why  the  devil,  altogether,  should  I?" 

"Ah  because  you  distinctly  want  to,"  said  Nanda 
ever  so  kindly.  "You've  admitted  as  much  when 
we've  talked  — " 

"Oh  but  when  have  we  talked  ?"  he  sharply  inter 
rupted. 

This  time  he  had  challenged  her  so  straight  that  it 
was  her  own  look  that  strayed.  "When?" 

542 


NANDA 

"When." 

She  hesitated.    "When  haven't  we?" 

"Well,  you  may  have:  if  that's  what  you  call  talk 
ing  —  never  saying  a  word.  But  I  have  n't.  I  've  only 
to  do  at  any  rate,  in  the  way  of  reasons,  with  my 
own." 

"And  yours  too  then  remain  ?  Because,  you  know," 
the  girl  pursued,  "I  am  like  that." 

"Like  what?" 

"Like  what  he  thinks."  Then  so  gravely  that  it 
was  almost  a  supplication,  "Don't  tell  me,"  she 
added,  "that  you  don't  know  what  he  thinks.  You 
do  know." 

Their  eyes,  on  that  strange  ground,  could  meet  at 
last,  and  the  effect  of  it  was  presently  for  Mr.  Long- 
don.  "I  do  know." 

"Well?" 

"Well!"  He  raised  his  hands  and  took  her  face, 
which  he  drew  so  close  to  his  own  that,  as  she  gently 
let  him,  he  could  kiss  her  with  solemnity  on  the  fore 
head.  "  Come  ! "  he  then  very  firmly  said  —  quite  in 
deed  as  if  it  were  a  question  of  their  moving  on  the 
spot. 

It  literally  made  her  smile,  which,  with  a  certain 
compunction,  she  immediately  corrected  by  doing 
for  him  in  the  pressure  of  her  lips  to  his  cheek  what 
he  had  just  done  for  herself.  "To-day?"  she  more 
seriously  asked. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.    "To-morrow." 

She  paused,  but  clearly  for  assent.  "That's  what 
I  mean  by  your  taking  me  as  I  am.  It  /V,  you  know, 
for  a  girl  —  extraordinary." 

543 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE 

"  Oh  I  know  what  it  is  ! "  he  exclaimed  with  an  odd 
fatigue  in  his  tenderness. 

But  she  continued,  with  the  shadow  of  her  scruple, 
to  explain.  "We're  many  of  us,  we're  most  of  us  — 
as  you  long  ago  saw  and  showed  you  felt  —  extraor 
dinary  now.  We  can't  help  it.  It  is  n't  really  our 
fault.  There's  so  much  else  that's  extraordinary 
that  if  we're  in  it  all  so  much  we  must  naturally  be." 
It  was  all  obviously  clearer  to  her  than  ever  yet,  and 
her  sense  of  it  found  renewed  expression;  so  that  she 
might  have  been,  as  she  wound  up,  a  very  much  older 
person  than  her  friend.  "Everything's  different 
from  what  it  used  to  be." 

"Yes,  everything,"  he  returned  with  an  air  of  final 
indoctrination.  "That's  what  he  ought  to  have  re 
cognised." 

"  As  you  have  ? "  Nanda  was  once  more  —  and  com 
pletely  now  —  enthroned  in  high  justice.  "Oh  he's 
more  old-fashioned  than  you." 

"Much  more,"  said  Mr.  Longdon  with  a  queer 
face. 

"  He  tried,"  the  girl  went  on  —  "  he  did  his  best. 
But  he  could  n't.  And  he 's  so  right  —  for  him 
self." 

Her  visitor,  before  meeting  this,  gathered  in  his  hat 
and  stick,  which  for  a  minute  occupied  his  attention. 
"He  ought  to  have  married  — !" 

"Little  Aggie?   Yes,"  said  Nanda. 

They  had  gained  the  door,  where  Mr.  Longdon 
again  met  her  eyes.  "And  then  Mitchy  — !" 

But  she  checked  him  with  a  quick  gesture.  "No  — 
not  even  then ! " 

544 


NANDA 

So  again  before  he  went  they  were  for  a  minute 
confronted.  "Are  you  anxious  about  Mitchy?" 

She  faltered,  but  at  last  brought  it  out.  "Yes.  Do 
you  see  ?  There  I  am." 

"  I  see.  There  we  are.  Well,"  said  Mr.  Longdon  — 


to-morrow." 


tarbe  RitoewiDe  press 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


li 


